


It's All Pretend, I Swear

by SilentNorth



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anxiety Attacks, Explicit Language, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Self-Destructive Behavior, Side Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou, Smoking, Underage Drinking, edit: now with bed sharing, just overall bad decisions, pov switching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:02:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 59,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27110890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentNorth/pseuds/SilentNorth
Summary: There's absolutely no way that Osamu has boyfriend before him, but Atsumu's willing to do just about anything to keep him and his brother on an even playing field. It's a party, so Atsumu's not making the best decisions. Still, asking Sakusa Kiyoomi to be his fake boyfriend has to better than the alternative.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 236
Kudos: 461





	1. There's no turning back for us tonight

This is quite possibly the worst night of Atsumu’s life. It shouldn’t be, but it is. His first, real college party, and he has to hear it from Aran that Osamu is dating Suna? Tonight? When they’re supposed to be celebrating the end of midterms?

Osamu. Dating Suna.

No. Impossible. Those words have no meaning to Atsumu, but they echo in his head as he pushes his way through this frat house’s halls. Aran had given him some semblance of Osamu’s whereabouts, but this was a party—no, a real rager—and it was doubtful anyone stayed in one place for long. And if they were, well—

Then it was behind closed doors and Atsumu wanted no part in _that_.

The thing was, Atsumu thought as he ducked past a keg stand in the middle of the kitchen—not getting any beer on his clothes thankfully—the thing was, neither of them had dated before. Not through high school and not through their first months in college. Hell, they were still roommates just like in their childhood bedroom, so things didn’t even _feel_ all that different. But to hear from _someone else_ that his brother had made this sudden change? And during midterms. Well, that was just irresponsible.

At the very least, Atsumu should have heard it from Osamu first. Not in the circle of their friends sitting in the living room, on carpet that had had one too many beers spilt on it without being properly cleaned. Not from Aran while Kita looked on, wearing that expression he wore when Atsumu and Osamu argued in front of everyone like they were the only ones in the room. But Osamu hadn’t even been there. And of course, now that Atsumu was thinking about it, neither had Suna. Just Atsumu with his face getting redder and redder without anyone to blowup at and Kita wearing that expression on his face that looked vaguely like some kind of disappointment.

And Atsumu hadn’t even done anything yet.

Atsumu takes the stairs to the second floor two at a time and nearly wipes out the impressive line of empty alcohol bottles along the banister, which sits like a trophy shelf. It’s an inclusive collection of Fireball, Jack Daniels, Smirnoff, and one bright pink Svedka.

Atsumu had almost thought about joining a fraternity—not this one, Kappa Phi something—but then Osamu had threated to disown him. Atsumu had lost interest anyway. They hadn’t even gone to any _real_ parties until this one—nothing sloppy and loud and guaranteed to black out the majority of the attendees by the end of the night. At least, until Osamu had relented and the rest of their friends said they were going.

Only now does Atsumu think that it might have only been due to Osamu’s most recent relationship developments, but he still can’t imagine his brother getting sloppy drunk so he can make-out with his new boyfriend and rub it in Atsumu’s face.

Okay, he _can_ imagine it and it’s hilarious—sort of, maybe, sans _boyfriend_ —but that doesn’t mean Osamu would do that, Atsumu thinks.

He just has to be sure these aren’t just well-meaning rumors from their friends. Confirm Osamu is actually dating Suna first, then figure out what the protocol for that is. More like figure out how to keep Osamu from teasing him about this for the rest of their lives. Osamu, getting a boyfriend first. That’s just—so many points racked up in his favor in the never-ending competition that is their relationship.

It’s probably fucked up—Atsumu doesn’t know—but he can’t help his competitive streak, and clearly, Osamu can’t either.

Atsumu walks into three occupied rooms before he locates Osamu. A group is smoking something in the closet-sized bathroom, though it’s probably just weed. That was definitely a séance happening in the first bedroom, what with the candles, the pitch blackness, and the circle of people sitting he’d spotted when the hall light slipped in for a brief second. From what he could hear, a couple is definitely having sex in the third, but all Atsumu could see was a set of bunkbeds so that’s…precarious?

Finally, in the fourth room at the end of the hall is a normal bedroom. Just the lamp is on next to the bed. Also standing next to the bed, just the two Atsumu’s been looking for. Suna, nearly blocking his view of Osamu with his hands on his face, lips also on his face, pushing him backwards, and Osamu’s knees hit the bed and there are muffled noises Atsumu can’t quite make out mostly because of the bass that seems to be pumping from the walls themselves in this house, but also because his brain has completely tuned into static.

This was not what he wanted to see tonight. This is not something he ever wants to see again.

“Please tell me you two aren’t datin’,” he says loudly, one hand pointing at the breaking news happening right in front of him, the other protectively shielding his virgin eyes.

Suna pulls away, and it’d be one thing if Osamu was dating someone, but that someone is Suna—Suna, who they had practically grown up with—and both Suna and Osamu turn their eyes on him like their unsurprised he’s just come barging into the room shouting. Staring at him like they aren’t on the other side of tipsy. Atsumu is, too. Suna almost stumbles over his feet, but it’s merely a shuffle and Atsumu’s disappointed the two of them can’t bother to look more affected.

It takes an extra second, but Osamu’s expression morphs into some kind of twisted glee. Atsumu scowls.

“I think it’d be better if we were datin’ considerin’ the predicament you’ve caught us in,” Suna says. “Don’t you think?”

“’Tsumu, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu says, leaning forward until his arm is slung over Suna’s shoulders with his chin on one of them. “I was waitin’ for the perfect moment to tell ya. I really wanted to…preserve the memory.”

As always, Suna is quick on the draw. “Got it,” he says, phone already held up, flash gone off, and Atsumu is still staring, lips parted, but the alcohol keeps him from putting his outrage into human speech. He doesn’t want to think about how many embarrassing pictures of him are on Suna’s phone. Osamu has his share, too.

Osamu grins down at the phone screen Atsumu can’t see. “Perfect,” he murmurs and then looks at Atsumu again. “T’answer your question. Yeah. We’re datin’.”

Actually, Atsumu is full on gaping now, mouth opening and closing while he wracks his addled brain with something to say that won’t ruin him for the rest of eternity. Whatever he says now will only add to whatever Osamu says down the line as he recalls this moment. Whatever he says now will seal his fate.

If he weren’t drunk and stupidly competitive with Osamu in the first place, he might manage a passive aggressive _I’m happy for the two of you_. They are two of his favorite people after all, though that does raise an eyebrow at the rest of his relationships. But he is drunk, and it’s only Kita’s lingering stare in his mind’s eye that keeps him from doing something stupid and really making an ass out of himself.

Quickly, he spins on his heel and walks out of the room. He swears he hears the two of them laughing to each other behind him, but it’s more likely the EDM is playing tricks on his mind and they’ve gone back to making out like they hadn’t been interrupted in the first place.

Atsumu needs a drink. _And_ he needs a boyfriend.

Actually, now that the thought has crossed his mind, he decides he needs a boyfriend right now.

Because that’s exactly what’s going to fix this situation. He can still fix this so that he comes out on top. It doesn’t have to be real. As long as Osamu believes it. Suna too. And that probably includes the rest of their friends.

And that leaves Atsumu lacking any viable options of people who would do a favor for him.

But he’s at a party. Most of the people here are wasted enough not to make responsible decisions, himself included. He can absolutely turn this mess around because there is no way that Osamu gets to have a relationship before Atsumu. There is no way Atsumu can suffer with that hanging over his head for the rest of his life.

The fact that Osamu landed a boyfriend first will put him at the butt of every joke for the rest of eternity.

* * *

Kiyoomi is the only sober person at this party. It’s a fact, and he’s been running it over and over in his mind for the last two hours. He’s just not sure if it’s making him feel worse or better. Probably better, he thinks as he watches someone in a jersey across the room hunched over a plastic houseplant in the process of throwing up.

However, he wouldn’t mind something to take the edge off. In fact, if he could skip all the side effects of the ensuing hangover, he wouldn’t mind completely blacking out and forgetting this night ever happened. He’s only here because of Komori, and they both live in apartments off campus, so someone has to drive. Kiyoomi just wishes Komori hadn’t called upon one of the many instances Kiyoomi still owes him for.

They’ve done this since high school. There’s a social event Kiyoomi wants or has to attend and he drags Komori along as his social shield. On the other hand, it works the same way with Komori, and most of those times, Kiyoomi is some version of designated driver and Komori remains his impenetrable defense against small talk. Or just people in general.

Right now, though, Komori is across the room with his midterm study group. They aren’t half as drunk as the majority of everyone else in the house, besides Sakusa, but they’re on their way.

Kiyoomi doesn’t mind as much as he might under other circumstances. The frat boys have developed alcohol induced tunnel vision. As long as he’s quiet in his corner and doesn’t make any sudden movements, the rest of the party should continue to ignore him. He doesn’t make direct eye contact with the mysterious stain in the carpet by the couch. The wall vibrates against his back from the speakers. He can survive this for another hour, but he has his limits.

The music changes over to pop and Kiyoomi realizes his cup is empty. He’d been sipping water slowly throughout the night, half to keep from needing to enter the kitchen again and half to guarantee that he wouldn’t have to use one of the bathrooms in this house. Holding onto the cup at all is just so people don’t ask him over and over again if he wants something to drink. He’s been to enough parties with Komori to know this.

But his throat is dry and he’s thinking the best course of action to take when he looks up just in time to see Miya Atsumu slipping down the last three steps. It’s graceful in a way only someone who’s drunk is capable off, sock feet gliding neatly over the carpeted edges of the steps, arms flailing even after he sticks the landing on solid ground.

Everyone in proximity to the sight cheers and claps, but Atsumu is stalking off, eyes searching, unknown that he is the cause behind the swell of noise.

Kiyoomi shares a surprising amount of class with Atsumu this semester, so he knows him on sight. If he hadn’t seen him first, then he’d certainly know Atsumu was around the second he decided to open his mouth.

Atsumu paces the first floor, and Kiyoomi watches as he disappears into one room and appears again out of the kitchen. His head is still on a swivel, like he’s looking for someone, and his eyes keep landing on a group sitting by the fireplace.

Kiyoomi enjoys the sight of him. He’s a familiar face here, and if it weren’t for the apparent intoxication, he would look put together for once. Kiyoomi has seen him in a onesie, clearly hungover in their 8 a.m. philosophy class, hair limp on his forehead, bags under his eyes. Now, his jeans hug his legs possessively and the yellow polo stretches across his chest and around his arms. He almost looks like he belongs to this fraternity house. If it weren’t for the way his eyebrows were drawn together, his lips slightly parted in a lost kind of confusion, he could almost be a featured sight at these parties.

But this is the first Kiyoomi has seen him at one.

Objectively, Kiyoomi likes Atsumu. He likes him a lot. Or rather, he likes the idea of him. He likes looking, and that’s about it. Bring his biases into it—Komori would call it him being difficult—he doesn’t think he could stand being around the guy for long.

Maybe he just has to build up more of a tolerance, but that’s not going to happen with a drunk Miya Atsumu. Not tonight. But Kiyoomi rarely has the chance to simply exist comfortably, because Atsumu has locked eyes on him and is making his way over. Kiyoomi sighs through his nose and remembers that he could have slipped away into the crowd in search of more water.

“ _You_.”

Kiyoomi really hopes Atsumu isn’t one of those angry drunks that wants to fight everyone he sees. Even if Atsumu is, Kiyoomi is pretty sure Osamu has to be around here somewhere. He’s argued with Atsumu a number of times in class, but Atsumu’s never expressed any interest in fighting him physically. Given his slight height advantage, Kiyoomi thinks he could take him.

But clearly he and Atsumu are on different wavelengths.

“Date me,” Atsumu says.

“What.” Kiyoomi’s jaw goes slack and he’s glad that his mask is hiding half of his face.

“Date me right now.” Atsumu is far too close, half whispering, and Kiyoomi tries really hard not to smell his breath. Instead, he leans as far as he can into the wall at his back but doesn’t push Atsumu away.

“No,” he says because as much as he’ll admit he likes the view, there is nothing there beyond that shallow attraction. And there’s no way he’s willing to mess with a drunk, desperate Atsumu, as amusing as that would be. It’s always a highlight to his day when Miya Atsumu makes a fool of himself.

Atsumu is even closer now, and Kiyoomi’s skin is crawling, but he can’t slip away. Under any normal circumstances, he would never permit it, but Atsumu is always a magnet, whether one that attracts or repels depends on the day, but he is a magnet nonetheless.

“Please, please, please,” Atsumu is stumbling over his words into Kiyoomi’s shoulder, and it sounds like he’s beckoning a cat. _Psspsspss_. “Omi-kun, ya don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand,” Kiyoomi says over the top of Atsumu’s head.

“’Samu has a _boyfriend_ ,” Atsumu says, dragging out _boyfriend_ like he expects some studio audience to gasp dramatically.

Kiyoomi can’t say he knows Atsumu well, so he can only guess what’s going on here are one of the many consequences of growing up with a twin. His condolences to Osamu.

Atsumu is straightening with great difficult, and Kiyoomi finally has space to breathe.

“If ‘Samu has a boyfriend, he wins. He’ll never let me live it down. C’mon, Omi. Yer the only one I can turn to.”

Kiyoomi takes a deep breath, one that isn’t full of Atsumu’s exhales. “The answer is still no, Miya. You have plenty of friends to ask, so bother them instead of trying to force torture onto me.”

“I can’t ask them,” Atsumu snaps, and he quickly glances over to the group by the fireplace. “Don’t you think ‘Samu would know? He’d never believe it. Besides, they like him better. None of them would lie for me.”

Kiyoomi raises a brow. “So you’re asking me to lie then.”

“Like it’d be of any consequence to you.” Atsumu raises a finger to point it dangerously close to Kiyoomi’s face.

“’Tsumu,” comes a call from the stairs.

Atsumu freezes, finger wilts between them, and any brazenly drunken mask he’d put on goes askew. It seems sober Atsumu is much better at keeping up his annoying charismatic façade because Kiyoomi has never seen such a look of raw panic on Atsumu’s face before.

He finds he likes Atsumu’s unguarded expressions, which is a dangerous conclusion to be forming as Atsumu whips back around to face him.

“How long,” Kiyoomi grits through his teeth, and Atsumu stares back with his mouth hanging open. “Miya, _how long_?”

“Uh—” Atsumu glances at the stairs again, then back to Kiyoomi “—uh, uh, I don’t know!”

Kiyoomi spots Miya Osamu on the stairs. He’s making his way down slowly, and Kiyoomi knows he definitely won’t make the same mistake as Atsumu had minutes before, but he’s bumping shoulders with someone else—Suna Rintarou, Kiyoomi recognizes—smiling softly.

He has no reason to help Atsumu. He has no reason to knock Osamu down a peg, which is clearly what Atsumu is after. So, if he has no reason, he should have pushed Atsumu away by now. He should have walked off to find Komori. Yet, in the furthest reaches of his mind, nearly drowned out by music, is he even half considering this?

“What do I get out of it.”

Atsumu’s floundering pauses and his face slips into a recognizable smirk. “Ya get to have a hot boyfriend. That’s sure to boost yer non-existent social life, Omi-Omi.”

“Miya,” Kiyoomi says as a warning, half because they both know he doesn’t have a social life, and half because Osamu and Suna are crossing the room and Atsumu’s smirk is quickly dissolving.

“Look,” he says, voice serious now as he crowds Kiyoomi’s space once again, “just for this one second, will ya please play along? However long, whatever ya want as compensation—we can talk about that later. I’ll do whatever ya want…for rest of the semester. You can have that as a—a down payment.”

Kiyoomi groans and resists the urged to pinch the bridge of his nose. He hasn’t washed his hands since before this conversation started and they feel dirty.

“You’re drunk. Now’s not the time to be making deals—”

“Deals with the devil,” Atsumu mutters under his breath, grinning obviously at whatever joke he’s telling himself, which Kiyoomi chooses to ignore.

“—but you can say what you want to your brother tonight. Don’t bother me too much. And no touching,” Kiyoomi continues, but the last of his words die in his mouth as Atsumu throws an arm around his shoulders. Kiyoomi hunches them in his disapproval and crushes the plastic cup between both hands.

Agreeing to fake date Miya Atsumu when he’s clearly drunk is probably taking advantage of him in some way or another, but Kiyoomi can’t land on an exact reason why that is.

Because who cares? Atsumu is someone who gets bored easily. Kiyoomi knows by the way he asks for homework answers the day they’re due. Odds are, Atsumu will tire of this quickly.

Kiyoomi gives it a week, and that’s if this conversation survives long enough to see the morning.

“Yer a real shit, ya know that, ‘Samu?” Atsumu says. “There I was, concoctin’ the best way to break the news to ya, and Aran goes and tells me yer datin’ Sunarin.”

Osamu shrugs. “Not my fault you dropped the ball.”

“Wait, are we really believin’ Atsumu’s been datin’ Sakusa?” Suna says in a low voice, not particularly meant for anyone.

But Atsumu hears and gives his cheeky grin that’s now far too close to Kiyoomi’s face.

“Since before midterms,” Kiyoomi says because he’s unwilling to just stand here and be Atsumu’s prop. Plus, that timeframe gives Atsumu enough to work with if he’s set on convincing Osamu that he had a boyfriend first.

Again. Not that he cares about preserving Atsumu’s pride.

“I woulda told ya upstairs,” Atsumu says casually as he inspects his cuticles of the hand not gripping Kiyoomi’s shoulder, “but I knew ya wouldn’t believe me.”

“I still don’t,” Osamu says, arms crossed over his chest. “Ya think I wouldn’t know if you had a boyfriend? You probably have some kinda blackmail over him, and yer doin’ this ‘cause yer a sore loser.” His eyes flick Sakusa’s way. “Sorry, Sakusa-kun.”

Kiyoomi shrugs. Atsumu’s arm drops from his shoulders and he’s stepping up to Osamu.

“See? This is why I was upset,” Atsumu says, his voice rising. Kiyoomi wishes the ground would swallow him up. He should probably start thinking of what Atsumu can possibly do to make this up to him. “I knew ya wouldn’t believe me since you got to drop the news first.”

“Everybody knew Suna and I have been talking about this,” Osamu snaps back. The way he argues is more clipped compared to Atsumu’s drawn out vowels. “The only time I hear ya mention Sakusa’s name is when yer tellin’ me how much you can’t stand him.”

Suna is also keeping out of the mess rapidly developing in front of them, though he watches closely, face unreadable. Leave it to the Miya twins to turn everything into a competition. Even boyfriends—real or fake—Kiyoomi should have known this would happen the second he’d seen Atsumu’s initial reaction walking up to him.

Because the Miya twins can’t have a normal disagreement. Whenever they go at each other, they make sure it explodes.

“Oh, _sorry_ ,” Atsumu growls. “Sorry I get frustrated when my _boyfriend_ doesn’t want to hold my hand or do _anything_ you and Sunarin get to do. And—what—you guys started datin’ today?”

Kiyoomi’s eyebrows raise. Maybe he had underestimated how well Atsumu could bullshit himself out of a situation. Or maybe he had underestimated how much Atsumu had been paying attention to him. Kiyoomi’s not offended by his words because they’re true. He’s just surprised that, despite the bickering they do in class, Atsumu is perceptive.

It’s not fair how pleased he feels with that knowledge.

“I was keepin’ it on the downlow for Omi’s sake, so don’t be a dick about it.” Atsumu glances back, a miniscule crease between his eyes.

Kiyoomi shouldn’t be able to interpret it so easily. He rolls his eyes. He supposes he can try to salvage the situation before they draw a crowd. Before it comes to blows.

“Believe me, I’m just as surprised that Atsumu has a caring bone in his body.” Kiyoomi should be using first names, right? That’s a thing people in relationships do? Atsumu’s eyebrows climb even higher causing Kiyoomi to cringe. “He wanted to rub it in your face immediately, but he didn’t because I asked for his subtlety.”

“’Xactly,” Atsumu says, grinning victoriously. “So, fuck you, ‘Samu. Don’t think you can pull one over on yer big bro.” He winks. “ _Of course_ you didn’t get a boyfriend before me.”

Osamu takes a step forward and punches Atsumu in the face, and Atsumu crumples to the ground. Kiyoomi hasn’t decided yet if he’s the kind of fake boyfriend that tears one twin off from beating the other. To be fair, Suna—the _real_ boyfriend—isn’t doing anything about it either. In fact, he’s taking pictures on his cellphone.

There’s probably nothing Atsumu can offer to make an ordeal of this nature worth it in the end, but he does like the way Atsumu wears a reddening bruise around his eye and the bloody nose that’s dripping stains onto the carpet. That probably makes Kiyoomi a sadist, but maybe that’s just because he’s too busy enjoying the view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably should have written more of this fic before posting, but I couldn't help it! I had to write a sakuatsu fake dating au. Am I just gonna use long ass, song chapter titles? Maybe haha
> 
> I've been way too obsessed with writing these two losers lately.
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://silentmarco.tumblr.com)


	2. Rule number two, just don't get attached to somebody you could lose

Atsumu has been awake since eight, but he hasn’t moved in three hours. Staying perfectly still keeps his fragile skull from shattering. His migraines are always the worst after a night of drinking, but up until now, the mornings after have never been this brutal.

Groaning, he sits up. He wants nothing better than to continue to doze the day away until his head doesn’t feel like such a traitor to the rest of his body, but the air feels stuffy in the room.

Osamu, who had been passed out with his head shoved under his pillow, stirs at the sounds. Seeing him reminds Atsumu of the other reasons his face feels like shit. He wishes he could see exactly what marks he’d left on Osamu’s face. He knows he gave just as well as he took. His hand is sore, and one knuckle is split. He hopes he at least made something that would stand out on Osamu’s face. That way Atsumu doesn’t have to be the only one with such a visible mark.

He needs a cigarette, but that means he has to go outside unless he wants to piss off Osamu even more.

Maybe he does. His head is too stuffed up to properly weight the consequences.

Osamu lifts his head as Atsumu’s feet hit the ground. Cowlicks stick out every which way as he blinks sleepily at the wall. Atsumu curses him for never having hangovers. He’s just a lazy ass who can sleep his Saturdays away without migraines and a dry mouth.

Atsumu swears he carries the brunt of their combined hangovers.

“You wouldn’t feel so shitty if ya didn’t smoke,” comes Osamu’s gravelly voice. With some herculean effort, he wrenches his pillow out from under him and hurls it at Atsumu. “Or if ya weren’t such a dick.”

He means last night’s fight, but it isn’t the first time they’ve dealt with their issues in public, and it won’t be the last. The pillow thumps harmlessly against Atsumu’s chest and he lets it lay there.

“Yer the dick,” is the best he can come up with, and he grabs his phone and his pack of cigarettes and leaves before Osamu can wake up enough to really start up another argument.

Outside the resident hall, it’s a cloudy and chilly morning—though it’s going on afternoon now—and the sidewalk is rough against his bare feet. At least no one’s around. There’s a herd of girls off a ways, heading toward the cafeteria for brunch, but other than that, the campus looks deserted from here. Atsumu sticks a cigarette between his lips and pulls his lighter from the pocket of his hoody.

He doesn’t remember too much from last night, doesn’t remember who threw the first punch between him and Osamu, doesn’t remember who finished it, doesn’t remember how they got back to their rooms. Kita and Aran are probably involved somewhere in the mix. The fact that the fight ended at all could probably be accredited to Kita stepping in.

Atsumu’s sure Suna has plenty of last night’s events recorded on his phone, but he’ll be damned if he’s to sink as low as to ask him about it.

It takes him until he’s nearly finished with his first cigarette for him to start feeling better. Actually, one could argue that he’s downright chipper, despite how his toes are starting to go numb. His lips curl around the cigarette as he breathes in and lets out the smoky breath.

Drunk Miya Atsumu is a _genius_.

There is one thing he remembers last night, and that’s finding Sakusa Kiyoomi in that crowded frat house and somehow convincing to go along with his plan to trick Osamu. Fucking fantastic.

Because Sakusa Kiyoomi is the perfect choice. Sober Atsumu would have probably been too biased with his past frustrations with the guy to even consider him, but now that it’s all said and done, he can’t think of anyone better to have a fake relationship with.

Who Sakusa is as a person alone gives their relationship an airtight alibi. Why don’t they act like a normal couple? Easy. Sakusa is an absolute germaphobe. That solves any handholding, kissing, touchy-feely problems Atsumu might run into. Why do they bicker all the time and act like they can’t stand each other? Well, opposites attract? They do it out of…love? Atsumu’s not so sure about that one, but he could probably come up with something if he needed to on the spot.

As for the fight with Osamu, it’s another one for the history books, a history so long and convoluted that maybe he should stop including every single time they’ve fought. The Miya twins’ fights have even become infamous around campus in so short a time. Atsumu isn’t ashamed to say that that wasn’t their first brawl at a party. At least they’ve reached a point where no one’s surprised.

Only Kita has the gall to look disappointed anymore.

Finishing his cigarette and flicking the butt into the bin, Atsumu pulls out his phone. There’s a bunch of texts, and for the first time, his eyes find numbers written on his hand. They’re careful and neat in black ink under his thumb, and he has an idea of who they belong to, but his eyes are drawn back to his phone. Like a red flag above all the others, Kita’s message stands out.

 **Kita:** _I don’t want to know, but fix it._

Atsumu wonders if Osamu received a similar message, and he’s almost tempted to go back in and peek, but he’s not sure how he’d feel either way. Whether he was the only one unable to live up to Kita’s impossibly high standards or if Kita felt responsible over all of his friends. It was just Atsumu and Osamu who screwed up the most and therefore earned his attention.

Can’t it just be Osamu’s fault for once? Why do they all treat it like he’s the only screwup?

 **Atsumu:** _For once, I didn’t do anything wrong, but Samu and I are fine._

He hits send, but the lie leaves a lingering sour taste in his mouth. He lights up again and copies down the phone number written on his hand into his contact.

* * *

“But you _like_ him,” Komori says, laughing through his exasperation. Kiyoomi’s retelling of last night’s events is enough to get Komori’s attention through his lingering hangover. “You like him, and yet you’re—” he waves his hand over the table between them, searching for the right words “—what, pretending to be in a relationship with him?”

Without having any idea how exactly Atsumu wanted to handle this… _situation_ , Kiyoomi had broken the news to Komori. He didn’t really have a choice after practically being in the middle of the Miya Twins’ brawl last night.

They’re having their usual hangover brunch at a place a block away from their apartment building. Meaning Kiyoomi provided the Advil while Komori deals with his hangover and covers the bill. It’s one way Komori pays him back after especially rowdy nights. They just usually don’t have such lively topics of discussion mornings after.

“I don’t like him,” Kiyoomi shoots back. He plans to follow it up with a believable excuse as to why he’s helping Atsumu out—and why in this particular way—but he comes up short.

“You do,” Komori says, easily sliding into the empty air of Kiyoomi’s hesitation. “Or if like’s too strong of a word, then you’re obsessed with him.”

Kiyoomi opens his mouth, but he finds he can’t argue. Obsession has always come easily to him. It married nicely with the mysophobia, verging into OCD territory but only on his truly bad days. He’s obsessed with structure, with routine. He’s obsessed with the cleanliness that goes along with those routines.

And—for better or for worse—he’s obsessed with how Atsumu has become a part of those routines. He’d been annoying the first week of classes, but that wasn’t necessarily his fault. Kiyoomi was on the verge of a mental breakdown at any given moment those first few days because of the drastic change to his life. There was the apartment, the new classes, the new scenery. Everything but Komori had been flipped on its head. So, when the loud blonde happened to sit next to him in their first freshman orientation class, and then continued to track him down in the next two classes they shared, it grated on Kiyoomi’s nerves.

But when Atsumu claiming the seat next to him became an expectation, it was just another item on the list of his newly formed routine. That also included muttering snide remarks to whatever Atsumu said in the spare minutes before class started, just to see if he would shut up.

He didn’t.

And somehow, that turned into a kind of permission for Atsumu to ask him for bizarre, unbearable favors at parties.

“Removing my nonexistent feelings from the table,” Kiyoomi says, “it doesn’t matter. He likes that guy the year ahead of us. The one he’s always hanging around with. Kita Shinsuke.”

“I don’t know,” Komori hums. “Why would someone ask you to fake date them if feelings aren’t involved at least a little? In any case, he must trust you.”

Kiyoomi fights not to roll his eyes. “He was drunk. That, and I think you’re underestimating how much Miya likes to get under his brother’s skin.” _And mine_ , he doesn’t add because he’d afraid it might prove Komori’s point in some way.

Komori fights a smile. “I wouldn’t know.”

When they stand to go and Komori is looking more alive, Kiyoomi’s phone buzzes in his back pocket. He pulls it out while Komori goes up front and pays.

**UNKOWN:** _Meet at the Heads. We’ll discuss my evil plan._

Kiyoomi doesn’t have to wonder who it is. After all, unlike most, his memories of last night are still fully intact. He remembers writing his phone number in the palm of Atsumu’s hand. He’s only surprised it hadn’t become illegible between then and now. He adds it to his contacts before messaging back.

**Kiyoomi:** _You mean to discuss my compensation._

Komori meets him at the door for the walk back to their apartment.

“You don’t have to go to campus today, do you?” Kiyoomi asks. It’s a Saturday, and since midterms are over, their most pressing assignments are far off and hardly worth the effort of worrying over.

Komori shakes his head, and despite how the color has returned to his face, Kiyoomi has no doubts that his cousin plans to crash for the rest of the day. So, Kiyoomi leaves him at the front of the building for the back lot and his car. His phone buzzes again.

 **Atsumu:** _Help me make this work and I’ll be at yer disposal, Omi-Omi b^-^b_

Kiyoomi doesn’t respond. He can’t think of anything to ask for from Atsumu, and he’s not sure Atsumu would even hold up his end of the deal. Plus, he can’t help but dwell on what Komori had said.

Is he kind of getting what he wants out of this situation already? If that’s the case, then the only further compensation Atsumu can provide him with is suffering.

* * *

The Heads are technically a school monument, two busts of old guys sitting atop a stack of bricks. They’re under a tree next to the school’s football field, so you can guess where their focus was really centered on. It's not too far away from Atsumu's dorm. All the leaves are changing colors around campus and the weather hasn’t changed much from this morning, although Atsumu has put on more appropriate clothes, including shoes this time. He should be relaxing the day away in bed, owning Osamu in video games, and he would be, if they were talking. Osamu had refused to say another word to him after he’d gone back inside. But it was Osamu’s fault for forcing his hand last night, so Atsumu didn’t bother bridging the gap either.

After all, Atsumu was only doing what he had to. He could only imagine what life would be like constantly playing the third wheel. Because it wouldn't just be him and Osamu anymore. It'd be him, Osamu, and Suna. This was just him evening the playing field. Keeping the living hell at bay, at least for as long as Sakusa could hold out. 

Atsumu watched his shiny black car drive past for the parking lot nearby. It wouldn't be long until Atsumu got his answer. With his luck, it might only be a one-night thing.

If that ends up being the case, Atsumu might be in deeper shit than the hole he'd started digging last night.

Sakusa finally appears walking up the sidewalk. He’s got his mask on as usual and his highlighter yellow jacket makes him stand out like a sore thumb. That’s also nothing new. His jackets are eyesores—something Atsumu has told him plenty of times when he sits down next to him in class—yet Sakusa always looks like he wants to disappear in public.

Even now, the sidewalks are empty. Campus is always pretty bare on Saturdays, but this is the Saturday after midterms. Everyone’s sleeping off their hangovers and putting off cleaning up last night’s parties. Atsumu would like to be doing the same if it hadn’t been for his migraine. Despite the emptiness of campus, Sakusa still walks with his shoulders curved inwards, hands in pockets, and head bowed so that when he looks up at the world it’s with a glare.

Atsumu grins at the sight of him.

“I wasn’t sure you’d show up, Omi-kun,” he says, and if it’s possible, Sakusa’s glare darkens.

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t get repaid for the trouble you dragged me into last night,” Sakusa says as he comes to a stop just out of reach, as if Atsumu might suddenly grab for him at any moment. Considering Atsumu doesn’t remember the finer details of last night, he supposes he can forgive Sakusa’s hesitation.

Atsumu points at Sakusa. "True," he says, and winks because he can feel Sakusa staring at his black eye. Then, he plants his hands on his hips. "So, what do I need to do for you to keep pretendin' to date me?"

"That depends on how long you plan on making me suffer," Sakusa says, causing Atsumu to laugh.

"Dunno," he admits. "The end of the semester? Until Suna breaks up with my worthless brother? What do you think?"

"I think you're messed up."

"What," Atsumu says, faking a pout as he hops up on the ledge in front of the busts.

"You don't seem that attached to your brother that you would be jealous over a boyfriend," Sakusa says, and his eyes squint at Atsumu over his mask. "Is it some kind of twin dependency?"

"Shit," Atsumu breathes out before he can't help the grin that stretches his lips again. "I forgot yer majorin' in psychology. That has to be rule number one. No psychoanalyzin' me."

"I don't think we've reached that part of the conversation yet."

"Just wanted to put that out there before I forget," Atsumu says. "And yer wrong about the twin dependency thing."

"Then, please, explain," Sakusa says. "Maybe I'll be more inclined to help you."

With his hands braced on the brick, Atsumu leans forward. "It's not jealousy or dependency," he says slowly, working on a way to get Sakusa to understand something he definitely won't without having grown up like Atsumu and Osamu had. "'Samu and I have always been competitive. It's kinda easy when ya got a twin. I was born a few minutes earlier, so I get to hold that over him. It's fun. He does the same thing."

"Sounds troublesome."

"So," Atsumu says loudly over him, "if 'Samu takes such an obvious win, I'll never hear the end of it. Not just a few months." He locks eyes with Sakusa. "Never, Omi-kun."

Sakusa considers him for a minute. Atsumu feels cold under his stare, but maybe that's because the wind has picked up.

"I already told Komori," Sakusa says abruptly. "That it's fake."

Atsumu tries to remember who that is. "That's yer...cousin, right?"

Sakusa scowls under his mask.

"Wait. Why'd ya tell him it's fake if ya weren't gonna commit, Omi-Omi?"

"Because of that fight you caused last night. Everybody at that party who wasn't completely wasted could hear what you two were fighting about," Sakusa says. "And Komori would have never believed me if I tried to sell him some half-truth you came up with while you were drunk."

"Hmm," Atsumu hums, thinking it over. "But will you be believable as my fake boyfriend?"

"I think I can manage," he says flatly.

Atsumu kicks himself off the ledge. "That's why you were the perfect choice." He sidles up alongside Sakusa, pretending to appraise him up and down. "Yer prickly enough to everyone, so we won't have to oversell it. Yer also a total germaphobe, so that limits the physical proof." Clapping his hands together, he straightens up in front of Sakusa. "Perfect excuses all around!"

"At least we're on the same page there," Sakusa mutters.

"Since yer the only one with boundaries, I'll let you make the rules, but I get to take creative liberties to make sure we're sellin' it enough."

"No psychoanalyzing."

Atsumu’s smile brightens. "No psychoanalyzing."

"You still haven't told me how you're going to make this worth my time," Sakusa says. "And effort."

"Easy. I told ya last night, didn't I? I'll do whatever ya want. I'm bein' a pain in class? Just say the word and—" Atsumu pulls an imaginary zipper over his lips and spreads his arms out "—I stop buggin' you."

Sakusa's eyes narrow again, as if he doesn't trust Atsumu's word. Finally, he sighs through his nose, and it puffs his mask up ever so slightly. "I'll send you my list of rules later. They are nonnegotiable."

Atsumu salutes. "Of course!"

Now that that's decided, he expects Sakusa to leave, but he doesn't. He stands there, watching Atsumu. Atsumu has no idea what's going on inside his head, and he's just starting to think this might be a problem since they'll be spending a lot of time together. He's going to have to learn how to gauge what Sakusa is thinking or else this entire fake dating scheme is going to crash and burn. Most of all, it'll blow up in Atsumu's face. He'll be the only one who won't come out unscathed.

So, instead of teasing like he's done in class plenty of times before whenever he caught Sakusa looking, Atsumu holds out his hand.

"I'm looking forward to workin' with ya, Omi-kun."

Sakusa stares at the hand. He'll have to get used to some touching at some point, Atsumu thinks, but it turns out today is not going to be that day.

“Don’t make me regret this, Miya.” And he leaves.

Sakusa's text comes an hour later. The ding of his phone wakes Atsumu from a nap in his empty dorm room. Osamu must've gone out with Suna, or to hang with their friends without him. He tries not to dwell on that scenario.

He reaches for his phones to find Sakusa's lists of rules. It's—not as much as he was expecting.

**Sakusa:** _1\. No touching without asking. 2. Any backstory information must be cleared with me first. 3. I approve all social media posts before posting. 4. This doesn’t go into next semester._

**Atsumu:** _I think I can work with those._

**Sakusa:** _5\. I’m your fake boyfriend, not a weapon for you to use against your brother. Anything cruel and unnecessary, I want no part of._

Rolling his eyes, Atsumu resists texting back the first thing that comes to mind. Like, this entire plot is to hurt Osamu. Not in a cruel way, but just enough to keep him from getting too smug about it. Just enough to protect Atsumu from future humiliation.

This entire plan might backfire and cause him worse pain, but he’s adamant about not thinking too hard on the drawbacks.

So, Atsumu diverts with the next best thing—

**Atsumu:** _I've thought of one other rule. It's not even that hard._

**Atsumu:** _Try not to fall in love with me, Omi-Omi ;)_

—making Sakusa uncomfortable.

Rolling over in his bed, Atsumu cackles to himself, wishing he could see the look on Sakusa's face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm updating shorter chapters so that I can get more of this fic out before November starts with nanowrimo.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Have a great weekend, everyone!
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://silentmarco.tumblr.com)


	3. Didn't care if the explosion ruined me

“Why are you calling me?” Sakusa’s voice sounds no less irritated than he does any other day. Atsumu was hoping he’d hear a groggy, half-asleep Sakusa, given that it’s two in the morning, but he’s disappointed.

“I’m changin’ our Facebook status, and ‘Samu’s outa the room,” Atsumu says, balancing his phone between his shoulder and ear while his fingers tap over the keys, not typing anything, but he stares at the relationship status post he’s about to make live. “You said to check in with you for social media shit, so that’s what I’m doin’, unless ya wanna retract yer dumb rule.”

“The rule stands,” Sakusa says, leaving no room for argument. “But why do you have to do this in the middle of the night.”

“It’s Sunday night—”

“Technically Monday morning,” Sakusa mutters.

“—I was runnin’ through the list of boyfriend things—things that you’ll permit o’course—and I remembered Facebook’s still a thing. I don’t use it, but ‘Samu and Sunarin changed theirs this morning. They already have over a hundred likes!”

Sakusa sighs, and suddenly Atsumu wonders if he should’ve waited until the morning for this. Sure, he’d have to dodge around Osamu because Sakusa inconveniently lives off campus, but maybe he’s pushing Sakusa already, and they’re just barely past the twenty-four-hour mark. He might not sound tired, but it’s doubtful Sakusa will be able to handle his high energy at this time of night.

Atsumu comforts himself in the knowledge that if Sakusa really wanted to do something about this late-night phone call, he’ll use his unlimited power to shut Atsumu down. Atsumu doesn’t like the idea of that, but at least that will make it easier to tell what’s on Sakusa’s mind, when he’s been pushed too far.

And Atsumu’s only getting started, testing the waters, seeing just how many times he can poke the bear before he snaps.

Not for the first time, he wonders if he’s taking advantage Sakusa in some way, despite Sakusa getting to call every shot.

Though, Facebook should be the least of their concerns, unless—

“Wait. Are you not out?” Atsumu asks before Sakusa can sigh all the air from his lungs. He sits up straighter at his desk. “ _Are you even gay_?” he hisses.

“ _Yes, I’m gay_ ,” Sakusa seethes back. “It’s not necessarily something I’ve been loud about since coming here, but nobody’s going to care if they see your stupid post on Facebook.”

“Sweet,” Atsumu says, and he clicks post. “It’s live. Don’t worry, I didn’t write anything snarky that needed yer blessing. Just yer generic relationship change. Done.”

There’s a shuffling sound through the phone, and Atsumu wonders if Sakusa pulled his phone away from his ear to check.

“See, Omi-kun? Nothing incriminating.”

Sakusa snorts softly, phone back up to his face. “Tell that to your profile picture. I don’t know if it’s pretentious or obnoxious,” he says. “Forget about anyone being concerned that I’m dating a man. They’ll be more concerned that I’m dating an _art student_.”

“Hey,” Atsumu says, affronted, but only for a second.

He’s really proud of his profile picture. He’d made it the summer before college started after pirating Photoshop. He’s in the front of a car—the one he and Osamu share—and he’s wearing these sick green Aviators with gold frames. His hair’s all done up and freshly bleached. The entire picture is in black and white except for his sunglasses, and he’d kept just a bit of color to his hair.

He looks like he’s ready to ditch his tiny hometown for bigger and better things.

“At least my face is in it. Yers is just a bad cellphone pic with yer back turned. All you can see is that hideous yellow jacket yer wearing.”

“My mom is definitely going to call me tomorrow asking if this is a passion project or something,” Sakusa groans, ignoring Atsumu’s griping.

“Do ya have some kinda prejudice against art students or something?” Atsumu asks flatly.

“Only the pretentious ones,” he says. “The cry for help kind, and it doesn’t make it any better that this is all a fake relationship.”

Atsumu grins at his screen. “Hey now, I said so psychoanalyzing me, remember.” A red bubble pops up in his notifications. It doesn’t matter the late hour, it doesn’t matter that it’s bottom-of-the-barrel Facebook, the masses are looking for news.

“I know, but you’re so messed up.”

“October seventh,” Atsumu says. “That’s our anniversary, babe.”

“Do _not_ —no pet names,” Sakusa says sharply. “I’m adding a new rule.”

Rolling his eyes, Atsumu shuts his laptop and reaches for his Marlboros. He’ll check the drama in the morning, he tells himself, though he’s dying to know what people will say. “It’s about a week before ‘Samu’s, so don’t forget.”

The fact that Kita regularly check Facebook gnaws at his stomach. He doesn’t remember what he’d said to him after the party, if he had said anything, but all he can picture are those disappointed eyes, the text message telling him to _fix it_ , and then he’s back to wondering if this was really a good idea in the first place.

“I’ll put it on my calendar,” Sakusa says dryly.

“We are officially—” Atsumu sticks a cigarette between his lips and shoves the anxiety far, far away until morning “—official.”

It’s three in the morning, and Atsumu is on his second cigarette when the lock clicks and Osamu walks in. He scowls when he sees Atsumu, feet up on his desk, window cracked, and him leaning over to blow smoke out into the night.

“I thought I told ya not to smoke in here.”

Atsumu pulls his feet off the desk and they slap the floor. “I thought you weren’t talkin’ to me.”

Osamu’s eyes narrow at him. “If I don’t, you’ll walk around thinkin’ you can do whatever ya want.” He marches over and his hand shoots out to grab for Atsumu’s cigarette. “Like smoke inside the room _I have to sleep in, too_.”

“Careful.” Atsumu pulls the cigarette just out of reach. “You’ll wake up the whole floor.”

With a huff, Osamu backs off, running a hand through his hair while he retreats to his bed. “I swear, going to college is like hitting second puberty for you. Yer _unbearable_.”

“Maybe to you. Omi doesn’t think so.” Atsumu resumes his position, feet on the desk, cigarette between his lips. “Speakin’ of, yer sure hangin’ out with Sunarin a whole lot. Should I stop waiting up for you?”

Osamu scowls. “We’re datin’. What’d you expect? And I never asked you to wait up for me,” he says. “I still don’t believe yer actually datin’ Sakusa. I’m just tryin’ to figure out what you have over him.”

“It’s not like he lives down the hall like Suna.”

“There’s the car.”

Atsumu shuts his mouth for a second. They did agree to share the car this semester, but up until now, it was just their ride to and from school for breaks and for snack runs off campus.

He scrambles to think of a better excuse.

“You know Omi-kun. Sorta. He likes his space. I dunno if I’m—if we’re—I dunno if he’d want me there yet.”

“Oh c’mon, ‘Tsumu. We both know yer the last person to tiptoe around someone else’s feelings if it means gettin’ something you want.” Osamu turns away to get his things for bed. “I can’t wait until ya give this whole act up and just let me have my own thing for once,” he mutters under his breath.

But Atsumu isn’t about to let him have the last word. He propels himself out of his chair. “I’m new at this, too, okay? It’s not my fault we grew up with Suna. Must be so easy to date someone you already know. I’m still workin’ on Omi-kun, so don’t think my relationship’s shit compared to yers just because ya know Sunarin like the back of yer hand.”

“That’s not—” Osamu opens his mouth, then closes it, frowning “—Whatever. I’m goin’ to bed.”

“If you pull the silent treatment again, I’m callin’ Ma,” Atsumu says. He’s standing in the middle of their room now, cupping one hand under his cigarette to keep any ash from falling on the floor. “It’s annoyin’ the hell outa me, and I won’t tiptoe around _yer_ feelings if yer gonna be a baby about it.”

“Yer the one being a baby.” Osamu yanks his shirt over his head and replaces it with one of their high school volleyball shirts Atsumu knows he sleeps in.

“Go cry to Sunarin about it,” Atsumu says, but it’s lacking any of the bite he’d had when he sprung up. He goes back to his desk and snuffs his cigarette out while Osamu crawls into bed. Atsumu waits until he’s settled before he clicks of his desk light. Then, in the dark, he stumbles his way to his own bed.

It’s silent for a few minutes, a telltale sign that neither of them have closed their eyes yet.

Arguments with Osamu are never fun, but he should be used to them. And Osamu should be used to the fact that Atsumu is competitive to a fault.

Still, lying to him and making a play to make him feel bad only for it all to end in an argument, is not exactly fun. It doesn’t give Atsumu the sense of victory he was after either. Because the lying is almost too easy, and the lying about Sakusa even more so.

Atsumu’s been a professional bullshitter since he could form sentences and learned that, if he blamed something on Osamu, at least half the time their parents would believe it. Now that things have changes, and Atsumu is making up lies and excuses for someone else, it shouldn’t be as easy, but after bugging Sakusa for half a semester, that’s what it is. Explaining Sakusa is like breathing in smoke. Atsumu got used to it quickly, maybe too quickly.

Everything about Sakusa is practically written on his face and the way he reacts to everything in a public space, anything that might pop his personal bubble, a bubble that Atsumu feels he’s been pressed up against way too many times to count. Atsumu has been explaining Sakusa’s behavior to himself for weeks, every harsh word, the narrow of a brow, the way he moves his seat away when Atsumu inches closer. Explaining away Sakusa’s foul mood so he can inch closer again is a lot more fun than focusing on philosophy.

And filling in the holes of their new “relationship” is easy, at least when Sakusa is out of the room. It’s the not knowing how to be in a relationship with him that’s going to be the problem.

Atsumu will just have to stick with it long enough until they can breakup quietly without Osamu making it a big deal. Then, Atsumu can find something real to beat him at.

“Hey,” Osamu calls quietly across the room, though it’s no great distance. “Don’t actually call Ma. Okay?”

“Yeah, wasn’t going to,” Atsumu says to the ceiling. “So long as you don’t tell her about the smoking.”

“As long as you don’t tell her about me probably failing my chemistry midterm.”

“Isn’t that basic chem?”

“Yeah.”

“Sucks.”

“I know.”

Atsumu turns onto his side so he’s facing the dark room. He can just barely make out Osamu’s shape in his bed. “I’m not gonna tell her.”

“Thanks. Me either.”

Atsumu actually gets dressed for his morning class Monday. Like he combs his hair and puts on jeans instead the of sweatpants he slept in. His black hoody doesn't smell too bad either. He's been wearing a lot of black ever since moving out. It's easier to do laundry when there’s only one load of darks. Osamu's been slightly more responsible in trying to learn adult things, but Atsumu won't let him live down how an accidental red sock had ruined his load of whites on his first try.

He heads out for class early, smoking on the way across campus and planning to finish outside the building. It’s a clear day, promising heat in the afternoon. Even this early, it’s a bit stifling dressed in his black, but days like these won’t be around for too much longer.

Philosophy has no right taking up such an early slot in anyone's schedule. He hadn't chosen it, but it counts for one of his core classes. He decided the first week of classes, it was best just to get it over with instead of going through the hassle of changing classes as a freshman.

Even if that means categorizing the way dead guys liked to argue.

It was his roughest midterm.

He's not always here early. Usually he's crawling out of bed, still in his pajamas, sprinting across campus just to make it on time, wondering the entire way if it’s really worth it. But he didn't want it to get back to his mom that he's been skipping classes. No matter what they’d said last night, there was always a possibility Osamu would tell her.

Those days are guaranteed a migraine.

Being here early doesn't make it too much better. It means he actually got up on time, which is way too early for him, especially after not falling asleep until just a few hours ago. Osamu, who doesn’t have a class until eleven, was still asleep when he’d left. It’s too early after such an eventful weekend as well.

For a second, Atsumu tries to imagine what it would feel like if it were real. If he and Sakusa really had gotten together, if he really was experiencing his first relationship. Would he be excited? Would he get those stomach butterflies?

It’s just to get into the mindset, but how is he supposed to know how he’s supposed to act if he’s never done anything like this before?

Because he isn’t feeling any of those things. He’s just annoyed. And tired.

At least it means Osamu won’t know what Atsumu looks like in a proper relationship either. It could be an entire dumpster fire and still seem real.

In fact, if Atsumu ever gets into a real relationship it’ll probably be just as big of a shit show.

Well, that’s something to look forward to. Atsumu takes a long drag of his cigarette, feeling the smoke burn the back of his throat, holds it in a moment, and then pushes it back out. He pulls out his phone.

The notifications have been pouring in since he posted on Facebook. He used to never check it, but now there’s suddenly too much to keep track of. It hasn’t equaled Osamu’s post in likes, but the comments are going a little off the rails. His mom has only left a heart in her wake, no comment, which probably means he’ll be receiving a call from her at some point today.

No word from Kita either. Not even a like.

Atsumu doesn’t really care about the other reactions. It’s all a bit over the top for 7:55 in the morning. He’ll revel in his self-imposed drama over lunch.

Phone back in his pocket, Atsumu glances up on his next smoky exhale and locks eyes with Sakusa walking down the sidewalk. The sight of him is too much this early in the morning, especially since Atsumu hasn’t seen him since Saturday when he was still hungover and playing catchup after Friday night.

Sakusa is dressed for the warm fall day. He has rusty orange colored pants rolled up over brown boots that are for fashion’s sake than for any kind of durability’s. His hands are stuffed into his pockets, a jean jacket in the loop of one arm, prepared as ever. A navy blue button down is covered with large frilly goldfish, French tucked, sleeves cuffed around his biceps. Only his face is the same as ever, indifferent eyes over his white mask, bearing into Atsumu.

The first thought going through Atsumu’s head is that he can’t believe he thought Sakusa might be straight.

As for the second thought, well, he definitely could have a worse-looking fake boyfriend.

He flicks ash from his cigarette and grins.

“Omi-kun! Here to walk me to class?” he says sweetly. “Maybe hold my hand?”

Even under the mask, Atsumu can see Sakusa’s nose pinch at the very notion.

“Put that out.”

Atsumu breathes out another mouthful of smoke, smile dropping. “Lemme finish first.”

“No.” Then, Sakusa is directly in front of him, plucking the cigarette carefully—but too quickly to stop—from Atsumu’s fingers, and disposes it into the bin next to him. Before Atsumu can even process that his fingers are empty a breath away from his lips, Sakusa has wipes out from somewhere and is going over his hands and down each finger thoroughly like a man possessed.

Atsumu’s eyebrows narrow. It’s too early not to snap, “ _Hey_ —”

“I get my way, remember,” Sakusa says, and he’s back in front of Atsumu, nearly looming over him. “ _That’s_ not going to be a thing as long as I’m around, so either break the habit or else the sooner you end this, the sooner you can get back to killing yourself slowly.”

“That’s not fair,” Atsumu growls. “I said I’d quit buggin’ ya if I was gettin’ on yer nerves, not givin’ ya the go-ahead to change me however ya want.”

“This is all an act. Play along because you owe me more than I owe you,” Sakusa says. “I can always make the decision easier and pretend to dump you.”

Atsumu grits his teeth for only a second longer, running through his mind how bad it’d be to quit smoking after only starting the bad habit a few months ago after moving out. Either way, it’s his pride he’s more concerned with.

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll…see what I can do.”

“Good,” Sakusa says, though he doesn’t sound pleased. He pulls away and stands in front of the door, watching Atsumu expectantly.

“What, does the princess want me to hold the door open, too?”

Sakusa rolls his eyes. “This is literally your problem. If you don’t want to act like a couple, then I don’t have to tell you why it’s not going to work.”

Huffing, Atsumu stalks over and wrenches the door open, gesturing stiffly.

“And you had the audacity to question _my_ ability.”

“God, lemme wake up first before ya start bein’ so liberal with the criticisms.”

The lecture hall is on the opposite side of the building, but they’re still early. If Sakusa hadn’t come along, Atsumu might have had time for a second smoke.

“Are any of your friends in this class?” Sakusa asks after a minute.

“Huh? Yeah, Aran-kun,” Atsumu says, shoving his hands into his hoody pockets, fiddling with the pack of Marlboros he apparently can’t have anymore.

“Alright,” Sakusa says. “I’ll bring you coffee next time.”

Atsumu perks up. “For real, Omi-Omi?”

“A caffeine addiction is better than smoking,” Sakusa says around a sigh. “And if it’ll take your mind off of it…” Sakusa doesn’t finish. Part of Atsumu hopes he feels bad. “Besides, it’ll look good, right?”

“Yer the best, Omi-kun! As for my coffee order—”

“You’ll take what I get you.”

Atsumu figured he’d be pushing his luck, so he shrugs. “Alright,” he breathes out, and steps forward to grab the lecture hall door for Sakusa.

Sakusa pauses inside. “If you wake up early enough, you can text it to me.”

Maybe Sakusa will keep him on the end of string until he decides this situation is worth it. Atsumu had been prepared for something along those lines when he’d put up his end of the deal, but he hadn’t thought Sakusa would try to offer anything more than a pretty face beside him, letting Atsumu call him boyfriend. Maybe if he did, it might be worth it if Atsumu breathes in whatever air Sakusa tells him to.

“Sounds good enough to me, Omi-Omi,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I've just come to terms that this fic is going to have short chapters. I hope you don't mind! I've been really enjoying putting it out in short bursts. It means I update a little more frequently ^^
> 
> Also, headcanon that Sakusa serves looks? Yes please!
> 
> Edit: Speaking of serving looks, check out [this amazing art of Sakusa](https://m-art-i.tumblr.com/post/636514813252632576/pov-youre-walking-through-campus-in-sweatpants) done by [marti](https://m-art-i.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://silentmarco.tumblr.com)


	4. How do I get your attention? How does it feel to always have mine?

Atsumu’s phone vibrates halfway through class. It’s around the time Professor Takeda usually gives them a ten-minute break, the time Atsumu would go outside and smoke just to have something to do. Just to have something to look forward to during the first half of class.

But Takeda doesn’t give them a break today. They’ve been going over their midterm exam for forty-five minutes, and since it’s technically past their breaktime, they’re diving right into the weekend’s recommended reading. The same reading Atsumu didn’t do.

So, despite Sakusa shooting him a dirty look, Atsumu pulls out his phone under the table to check.

And he’s glad he does.

There’s an earlier message from his mom asking him to call her later, but he already gets those once a day anyway. The newest message is the important one.

It’s Kita. After a weekend of radio silence—besides that one text basically telling Atsumu to get his life together—and not so much as a like on Atsumu’s updated relationship status on Facebook, Kita has been elusive. Meaning, Atsumu has been pulling a lot of shit and has yet to receive a fully formed Kita lecture yet.

But putting the impending doom off to the side, Atsumu is glad to finally hear from him. After all, Kita’s continued attention means Atsumu hasn’t been deemed a lost cause. Yet.

**Kita:** _Meet me for coffee after your class._

Atsumu goes to answer—of course he’ll meet Kita for coffee—but he hesitates. This could easily turn into a whole group scenario. Kita could have already invited Aran. Osamu and Suna could be in on it, too. Then Atsumu would show up and Ren and Gin would also be there, and it would be just like how Friday’s party was before Osamu and Suna split off and Aran leaned in to tell him the news.

Of course, Kita could immediately ask Atsumu to bring Sakusa along, and though he wants to convince his friends that they’re dating, he also hasn’t figured out how Sakusa would fit into that mix. Sometimes, he doesn’t even know how he fits into it.

**Atsumu:** _Just me?_

He waits, head bowed, professor going on about Descartes, Sakusa still glaring holes into the side of his head.

His phone buzzes in his hands.

**Kita:** _Just you._

Atsumu breathes out the breath he’d been holding and texts back a thumbs up before pocketing his phone again.

“Miya-kun,” Takeda says, and Atsumu nearly drops his phone on the ground. “Name the four pillars of philosophy.”

“Uh—” Atsumu flounders “—it’s logic and—and…”

“Theoretical philosophy, practical philosophy, logic, and history of philosophy.” Takeda is clearly disappointed, probably frustrated. Atsumu sinks in his chair at the unwanted attention. “It was on your midterm, we learned about it on the first day of class, and we just went over it. Try to pay attention, Miya-kun. In our next lecture, we’ll be breaking those pillars down, now that you all have a foundation of how different philosophers make their arguments and why.”

There is a weight lifted from Atsumu’s shoulders as the professor turns away, addressing the rest of the room, but it’s almost replaced by Sakusa’s gaze on him. Catching Atsumu looking, Sakusa rolls his eyes toward the whiteboard where the four pillars are written clearly. Atsumu wants to slam his forehead against the table.

Then, Takeda turns, attention on Atsumu once more.

“The greatest minds are capable of the greatest vices as well as of the greatest virtues,” he says. “Descartes. Now, turn to page 43.”

* * *

"Should you really be waiting after class for me when you have a boyfriend to attend to?"

Kiyoomi ignores Komori's teasing. He always meets up with Komori after his morning Bio lab, and he hadn't really thought it was something he shouldn't now that he has a "boyfriend." Atsumu was the one that ran off after philosophy anyway. Maybe he was too quick on the draw criticizing Atsumu's acting. Maybe he needs to rethink his own approach to this.

"Not that I don't appreciate it," Komori continues, catching up to Kiyoomi when he starts off without him.

"Just because I said I'd pretend to be his boyfriend doesn't mean I have to be clingy about it," Kiyoomi grumbles.

"You mean, just because you've liked the guy for months doesn't mean you've figured out what to do about that?" Komori grins at him, and if Kiyoomi was having a better day, he'd shove his face away. Instead, he's the one who grimaces and flinches away. He's felt dirty since touching Atsumu's cigarette two hours ago and it doesn't seem like that grimy feeling is going anywhere anytime soon.

“Can we go?” Kiyoomi asks, determined to not snap at his cousin. “I have a reading due for my next class and I’m only halfway through it.”

“You mean because you were too busy having a crisis about fake dating the guy you like?”

Kiyoomi almost convinces himself to leave him behind, but Komori keeps up easily. Kiyoomi has no choice but to keep him around. If he didn’t, who else would suffer through his grating personality? Clearly, not even Atsumu unless he wants something from him, and even then, Atsumu had been speedy to leave class. Not so much as a _see ya later, Omi-Omi_ in his wake.

Kiyoomi isn’t bitter about it.

The nice weather has continued through the morning. The sun is even brighter and Kiyoomi is thinking he shouldn’t have bothered with the jacket. Their campus isn’t very large, so making their way to the library is just a walk down the crisscross of paths behind the academic buildings, through the sparse trees planted in-between and the fallen leaves on the ground. Since they commute onto campus from their apartment, it’s easier to kill the next hour between their classes at the library on the Monday, Wednesday, Friday schedule. It’s a good time to do homework, especially to cram in reading that Kiyoomi had put off all weekend.

To be fair, he’s had a lot on his mind since Friday night.

Their usual spot is a rarely disturbed table all the way in the back, so they have to pass through most of the library and its other occupants to get to it, but once they’re there, the spot is quiet and out of the way.

Right inside the library, well separated from the first set of bookshelves by a wall of windows, is a nonbrand coffee place. The school has these little places set up throughout campus, which is good news for Kiyoomi if he’s going to be fetching coffee for Atsumu before their philosophy classes. It’s good news for any student stumbling between all-nighters, classes, and parties.

As for the coffee for Atsumu, Kiyoomi will find some way for Atsumu to pay him back. Something more than simply quitting his unhealthy smoking habit. Asking that of him is doing Atsumu a favor more than it helps Kiyoomi. Besides, Kiyoomi is being _nice_.

A loud laugh stops him just inside the door.

He glances over and then quickly away. At the table closest to the counter is Atsumu—well, Atsumu’s back—Kiyoomi could recognize the back of that bleached head anywhere. Figures the only time he’d be seen at the library is getting coffee. Not that his grades are bad, from what Kiyoomi can discern, but Atsumu doesn’t seem like the quiet studier.

Across the table, is none other than Kita Shinsuke. Kiyoomi knows the sight of him well enough to attach the name. He’s in Atsumu’s group of friends. He’d been at the party and he’d been the only one capable of breaking up the twins. He’s the one who, when he speaks, Atsumu practically hangs off every word. And it’s Atsumu who’s leaning across the table on his elbows, engaged in the conversation, talking with his hands, and Kiyoomi’s stomach sours.

It’s not jealousy. It can’t be. After all, he’s just the fake boyfriend. He’s almost positive friendships rank above that title. He’s just annoyed that Atsumu had ignored him the second his phone buzzed and he started texting under the table. The second that class ended and the second he hurried to leave without sparing Kiyoomi a second glance.

Just annoyed.

The real reason he feels so bad is because of the cigarette, so he chalks it all up to the start of a bad day.

Looking in on a bad day for Kiyoomi contains several constants, including a lot of rolling of eyes and sideways glances from those around him who recognize the extra cleaning, the extra distance he puts between himself and everyone else. It’s the way Kiyoomi feels more present in a room when all he wants to do is escape it, and it’s the feeling that everyone knowns it.

But nobody hates his bad days more than Kiyoomi. When class ends, everyone else gets to leave the room. Kiyoomi is the one stuck inside his body, containing the brain that reminds him of every single particle in the air—skin cells, microscopic drops of saliva, dirt and dust, pollen, and not to mention any viruses—all passing through his nose and mouth, down his throat, and deep into his lungs, no matter the mask he’s wearing.

Kiyoomi doesn’t get to escape this. He’s stuck wondering what is lingering under the fingernails of the hand that had touched the cigarette and if he’ll ever be able to clean them out enough to quell his anxieties.

It’s just a bad day. He’s had them before and he’ll have them again, therefore it has nothing to do with Atsumu.

Komori is waiting for him just inside the student ID card reader. Kiyoomi scans his ID and the little doors pull in to let him pass through. There’s not much that changes on the other side, but it’s instantly cooler and quieter on this side, though they can still see the faster paced world on the other side. He can still see Atsumu and Kita, but from this angle, he can see how Atsumu smiles, how his eyebrows raise as he leans forward to listen to whatever Kita says.

It makes Kiyoomi consider darting off to the restroom to wash his hands no less than ten times.

Komori has noticed, too. He hums softly, not saying anything until Kiyoomi does. Having grown up with Kiyoomi, Komori knows well that lines get drawn and he’s always been good about not crossing them.

“It’s exactly as I said,” Kiyoomi says and starts back toward their table. Komori follows. “There’s no way he can fake date someone like Kita, so removing any real feelings, he had to pick someone his friends don’t know.”

“And so that obviously means you.”

Kiyoomi shrugs and sets his backpack down next to his chair. Komori stops behind the chair across the table from him.

“Atsumu didn’t have to do anything,” Komori continues. “He’s only in this situation because he made it a situation to be in. You and I both know that’s how he is, but you didn’t have to do anything either.”

“You’re right. I should have stayed out of it.” Kiyoomi sighs. “Is that what you want me to say?”

Komori sits down and begins taking his books out and laying them on the table, a distraction from the words he clearly feels obligated to say.

“I just don’t know what you plan to get out of it. You’re going to end up hurt, and then I’m going to have to find a way to make Atsumu cry.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. It’s all pretend, and if anything, he’ll prove how much of a brat he is and I won’t have anything to worry about.”

Komori doesn’t look convinced.

Kiyoomi steps away from the table. “Worst case, _I’ll_ be the one making Miya cry.”

“Where are you going?”

Kiyoomi shoves his hands into his pockets. “Bathroom.”

Another good thing about their table is that it’s close to the restrooms. Kiyoomi uses his jean jacket to open the door and then again to keep the sink faucet from directly touching his hand. The soap thankfully has a motion sensor, which is why the library restrooms are his favorite of the public restrooms on campus. He lets it pump three rounds of foam into his palm before he starts scrubbing. He goes over his knuckles, between each finger, under his nails, back over his hands, palms. Kiyoomi does this again and again until the foam is washed away and he pulls one hand away for more.

There’s no visible evidence of dirt or grime on his hands, but he feels it. He scrubs until his hands are red from the heat of the water and the rough friction of his repetitive motions.

He wishes he could tell with certainty that the day’s germs—built up since the last time he washed his hands—were all washed away. And he wishes he could tell if it was the cigarette or Miya Atsumu that his mind is trying to get rid of.

Kiyoomi reaches for more soap.

* * *

Kita insists on buying his coffee, and with two guys making such promises to him today, Atsumu is feeling a little spoiled, so he doesn’t fight Kita’s offer too hard.

Kita is unlike anyone Atsumu knows. For one, he’s honest and straightforward to a fault, which makes a rare word of praise seem precious because it’s something Kita believes wholeheartedly to be true. That also means there’s a heap of truth behind every lecture. It means, when he and Osamu get yelled at, the deserve it.

He’s also so hardworking that it makes Atsumu exhausted just knowing him. He’s double majoring in agricultural science and education, so how he manages to have a free second to spend it on coffee with Atsumu seems ridiculous. Especially compared to Atsumu’s single major in graphic design. Of course, he thinks everyone’s major that’s not his sounds painstakingly exhausting, like Osamu’s engineering major. Sometimes he thinks he’s the lucky one, getting to be here, to learn, and to have fun. After all, what’s the point of anything if you’re not having the time of your life?

Engineering? Agricultural? Those sound like total snooze fests to him.

Like Suna, Atsumu and Osamu practically grew up with Kita, and Kita’s always appeared to be enjoying his strict routine of living busily, in his own Kita way of experiencing fun.

“Good?” Kita asks with one brow raised.

Realizing he’s been holding his cup to his lips for several seconds now, Atsumu hurries to set it on the table. “Yup,” he says. “Just the way I like it. I didn’t know ya knew my coffee order, Kita-san.”

Kita gives a wry smile. “I drove you and yer brother to school every day after I got my license. Remember how you two begged me to go to Starbucks? Who do ya think was doin’ the orderin’?”

“Oh yeah.” Atsumu flushes a bit at the memory. He and Osamu sat in the back seat, babbling like brats for Kita’s attention. Some days he gave in and other days he put his foot down. They could never tell until they opened their mouths.

“Anyway, I wanted to check in on you.”

“Okay, now ya sound like my ma,” Atsumu says.

Kita gives him a look and Atsumu clamps his mouth shut, not interrupting again. “Are you and Osamu okay?”

“Huh? I told ya we’re fine. Didn’t ya get my text?”

“I did, but—” Kita leans forward on the table, chin on his fists “—why don’t I believe it?”

Atsumu shrugs. “Well, you can choose not to believe whatever ya want even if I give my word. There’s plenty of not believin’ Atsumu going around lately.”

“Don’t be difficult. I’m worried about you.”

Smirking, Atsumu leans forward as well “You. Worried about me? Yer gonna make me blush, Kita-san.”

But Kita isn’t nearly as amused. He leans back now, arms crossed over his chest. “First the smokin’. Then, ever since you’ve stepped foot on campus, I swear I see you and Osamu at each other’s throats more often than not. Now you have a secret boyfriend? One that you conveniently reveal just rile up yer brother? Ya can’t blame me for bein’ concerned.”

“Okay, when ya lay it all out like that, it doesn’t sound so good,” Atsumu says. “But it’s all about perspective.”

“Then tell me what angle I should be lookin’ at.”

Atsumu blinks. Does he even have a good angle? His motive certainly isn’t good, and Kita should never be told it unless Atsumu wants to lose his respect forever as well as his friendship.

“Uh—” he sits a little straighter “—you’ll be happy to know that Omi-kun has asked me to quit smoking and that it’s something I’m workin’ on.”

It’s Kita’s turn to blink, both eyebrows slightly raised, and Atsumu wants to call it pleasantly surprised. A small victory. He’ll thank Sakusa later.

“Oh, that’s great, Atsumu,” he says. “I’m really proud of you.”

And that catches Atsumu off guard because Kita’s approval always does. Before he can suppress and hide any reaction, he already feels his face heating up. It’s not fair that such simple words can mean so much when coming from Kita.

“So you really like Sakusa-kun, huh.”

Atsumu’s going to have heart palpitations if this conversation keeps throwing him such curveballs. “Oh, well, ya know.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “Who can say? Infatuations come and go so quickly these days.”

“Not you though. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much as a crush on you. It makes me happy, Atsumu,” Kita says and smiles. It’s a genuine one that shoots directly through Atsumu’s chest. “You don’t give yer all unless yer serious about something.”

Atsumu wants to collect each and every word of Kita’s praise, but it feels tainted in his hands. At first, it’s nice. Kita’s kind words are warm like always. So is one of his rare smiles, sweet and open, but all of that sours knowing just how many lies on top of lies are falling out of Atsumu’s mouth right now. And Kita is believing him.

“Just try not to make everything a competition with yer brother. Yer ma made me promise I’d keep an eye on you two,” Kita continues.

“He started it,” Atsumu mutters under his breath. In some ways, this conversation is worse than the lecture he was expecting.

“Anyway, that’s not all I wanted to ask you about,” Kita says. “The sophomore student government is throwin’ an event for freshmen. It’s a congratulations on makin’ it through midterms kinda party.”

Kita is president of the sophomore student government. It’s one of the reasons Atsumu’s first big college party wasn’t until a few days ago. He and Osamu haven’t exactly branched out from their friends from back home, beyond Sakusa in whatever weird relationship that’s becoming. So, they’ve mostly stuck to events that Kita attends as president, and Aran as his VP, and those kinds of parties are often largely lacking in underage drinking, loud pumping music, and catching your brother making out with his new boyfriend in one of the upstairs bedrooms.

“We’re holdin’ a big bonfire in the west lawn. Just freshmen and SSG members are allowed to come. It’s next Thursday night. It’ll be outside with the fresh air, and I wanted to personally invite you because I think it’d be a good event for you to bring Sakusa-kun along. I know he lives off campus, so he probably doesn’t stick around for events like this.”

That’s true. Atsumu didn’t meet Sakusa until their first day of classes together. Sure, he could have missed him in the crowd of first years during orientation week, but Atsumu is more likely to believe Sakusa was holed up in his room.

However, what Kita is not connecting is the fact that Sakusa was still at that party Friday night. Suffering for sure, but he’d been there.

That, and though it’d be easier to convince Sakusa to go to this bonfire, Atsumu is pretty sure he could get Sakusa just about anywhere for the sake of their pretend relationship. Sakusa owes him for not smoking after all.

Still, this is a good starting point, he decides.

“That sounds fun, Kita-san,” Atsumu says. “I’ll tell him about it and see if I can’t drag him along.”

“It’d be nice to meet him officially,” Kita says, his smile has lost its cheer. “Ya know, without draggin’ you and yer brother off each other in the process.”

A laugh chokes its way out of Atsumu’s throat. “Yer right.”

“Great,” Kita says and means it. He stands up. “I have to get to class, so I’ll see you later, Atsumu.”

“Yup,” Atsumu says. “Thanks for the coffee.”

He watches Kita leave the library, bookbag over one shoulder, half-finished coffee in hand. He tries not to count every lie he had to tell Kita in that one conversation. Drunk Atsumu should probably be stopped in the future from making anymore big decisions.

Sakusa doesn’t talk to him for the rest of the day, or at the very least, it’s significantly less than usual. Atsumu doesn’t want to push it. He doesn’t know if Sakusa is having a bad day, he doesn’t know if Sakusa is sick of him already, that he’s unknowingly done something to get on his nerves today, and he doesn’t know if Sakusa is about to break up with him already.

But Sakusa leaves campus the same as he always does after their freshman orientation class, which is dumb today anyway, talking about their reading—which Atsumu didn’t do—and discussing underage drinking and college parties.

Atsumu thinks it’s a little too late for that.

So, maybe Sakusa hates him. Maybe he’s resenting their whole agreement with their fake dating. Ultimately, Atsumu decides not to push it today. It’s their first official day of pretending on campus, not that it amounted to much more than Sakusa promising him coffee on Wednesday and then ignoring him for the rest of it. There will probably be more days, better days.

Atsumu doesn’t want to think about it. He’s had a migraine ever since finishing his coffee with Kita, and there are no signs of it fading.

He knows exactly what’s causing it and what would probably take the edge off, but like his promise to Sakusa that morning, he’s trying his best.

What he needs is a distraction, and while the first thing that comes to mind isn’t something he’s necessarily looking forward to, it needs done and it’s probably better than a cigarette.

Atsumu pulls out and calls his mom.

She picks up on the first ring.

"Hey Ma."

"Atsumu. Are you outa class for the day?" Her voice is breathy, and at once, it makes him think of a class, clinging parent. She texts him plenty of times to call, but it’s not every day that he obliges, and when he does, it’s only to keep her from calling him.

"Yeah, just headin' back to the dorm to do homework."

"Make sure to eat dinner and take yer brother with you. Is he done for the day?"

"Dunno. Guess I'll see when I get back."

"Atsumu, you should know his schedule. You live with him."

"Yeah, yeah, doesn't mean I know where he is at all hours of the day."

"Is he doin’ alright?"

Atsumu grits his teeth. "Ma, if ya wanna know so bad, call him yerself."

"I know, I know, but you know he hates talkin' on the phone."

His hand clenches around his phone, and he has to take a breath before he actually follows through with the temptation of chucking it at the ground. "No, Ma. _I'm_ the one who hates talkin' on the phone."

There's a pause. "Ah, yer right."

Atsumu resists the urge to snap at her. She's always been an airhead, especially when it comes down to him and Osamu. Maybe it was getting worse now that they all aren’t under the same roof.

"Look, I'll tell him ya asked. Maybe he'll give you a call."

She hums. "I'd like that. I hardly ever hear from you two these days. The house is so quiet."

"I bet," Atsumu says, but he's only half paying attention while he wrestles his keycard out of his pocket in front of the dorm.

"And I wasn't even the first to know about yer recent developments,” she says. “Both of you."

Atsumu straightens. "Ah."

"I had to find out through Facebook."

He figured she'd get to it eventually, but he'd almost forgotten when she started worrying over Osamu like always.

"Now that my sons have moved out, they don't think they have to talk to me anymore or tell me important things, and now they've got their first boyfriends, and I'm the last to know about it."

Atsumu sighs and finally wrenches the keycard out to let him inside. "It was a busy weekend, Ma. I dunno what to tell ya. I'm callin’ now, ain’t I?"

"Only after I asked you to."

"Well." Atsumu doesn't have a good answer for that, and his headache is starting to get worse. He's craving a smoke and he might just give into it because as long as he's not around Sakusa, screw it, right?

“Is he nice?”

“No.” _He’s a dick_ , he wants to say, but Atsumu knows better than to use that language with his mom, but right now, he almost doesn’t care. Sakusa _is_ a dick, and Atsumu wouldn’t be feeling so shitty if he hadn’t gone and asked him to do something like stop smoking.

Over the phone, his mom laughs. “I guess it’s a good thing if ya like him. Means there’s someone who can keep up with you.”

Atsumu reaches his dorm room and opens the door. No Osamu.

“Ma, yer not supposed to say that about yer son.”

“Pretty sure yer supposed to say nice things about yer boyfriend,” she counters. “I’m only askin’, Atsumu. I’ve known Rintarou for forever. I’m sure he and yer brother will get up to plenty of trouble.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Atsumu mutters, kicking his shoes off.

“Send me a picture.”

Atsumu makes a face, partly at the question, but also because his feet smell. “Of ‘Samu?”

“No, of Sakusa-kun. I’d like to see what he looks like.”

“Dang, Ma. Yer about as shallow as me.”

“And tell Osamu to give me a call when he can. Miss you both.”

His pack of Marlboros are in his hand on instinct. “Yeah. You too.” He hangs up the phone and has a cigarette between his lips and Zippo in hand before he catches himself. He narrows his eyes out the window across the room. “I said I’d try, Omi, not that I would, and today’s been a shitty enough day as it is.”

The Zippo catches the first time, and he brings it to the end of his cigarette before crossing the room and shoving the window open. The first inhale doesn’t magically cure his migraine, but it’s getting there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are super crazy right now, so make you're all taking care of yourselves <3
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://silentmarco.tumblr.com)


	5. Speed it up, slow it down, need control, need it now

One, self-indulgent cigarette, lit just to turn his crappy day around, turns into three, and his third finds him speeding down the highway because Osamu had texted him asking for pudding. Atsumu rarely complies with running errands for Osamu, especially when they share the car. Osamu’s lame excuse had been that he was studying for a quizzed reading assignment for tomorrow and he was over at Suna’s preparing.

Sure he was.

Atsumu only agrees because he was going stir-crazy alone in their room with nothing to do. Plus, he hasn’t driven the car in a while.

Together, he and Osamu share a bright red Kia Stinger. It was part graduation gift, part their dad’s lame attempt to make it up to them for moving overseas after the divorce. Atsumu couldn’t care less about the reasons for the car, he loves it. It’s sleek and not too cramped inside, and it’s got a sweet engine.

Which means the Stinger’s perfect for hitting ninety on the highway. He passed the convenience store about ten minutes ago, but that’s only because it’s an afterthought. Atsumu’s out here first and foremost for himself, the rush of adrenaline as he flies down the road, the abandon streets at this time of night that fool him into thinking he’s the only person on the planet.

He doesn’t plan to go far, and he’ll make sure he gets some kind of pudding at some kind of convenience store in some town or other and get it back Osamu before midnight. But right now, he just drives. The windows are down and the cold night air whips violently through his hair, tearing the smoke from his lips and pulling it out into the darkness. His third cigarette threatens to snap with how hard he grips it with his lips curled around his teeth.

Much better than sulking around in his room.

He's always told himself that he'll look back on these years and cringe—he's lucky if he's not cringing at himself in the morning—but for now, he does what he knows will make him feel better. He's one hundred percent in control of thousands of pounds of steel and aluminum hurtling down the asphalt, needle twitching over ninety. He'll shoulder Osamu calling him an edgelord when he finds out as well as whatever other names he thinks will hurt Atsumu’s pride, and then he'll probably do it all over again.

Atsumu's not upset. He'd decided that fact before he put the key into the ignition in the parking lot. 

It's just a lot of little things piling up until he wishes he could do something with all this pent-up energy. Back in high school, he could play volleyball or go on a run, but he'd learned about a month ago that cigarettes and running didn't pair too well together. He'd have to pick one, and well, he was already getting headaches in-between smokes, so it wasn't much of a choice.

It's his okay score on his philosophy midterm. It's Osamu's last-minute request for pudding, though Atsumu hadn't fought him on it. It’s the fact that he didn’t bother fighting him on it. It's Sakusa not talking to him the rest of the day. It's Sakusa not texting him back. It's Sakusa, who's supposed to be this perfect fake boyfriend, but who's not doing a very good job other than what's on the surface. 

Though that's probably exactly what a perfect fake boyfriend is supposed to do. There's that whole cliché of catching feelings, so Atsumu guesses Sakusa being a dick everywhere except for when he doesn't absolutely half to be is for the best for both of them.

But Atsumu can’t help the loneliness that creeps in along with that realization. The fact that he’s as alone as ever in this lie. It does nothing to cure the distance he feels between him and his friends. The distance that’s between him and everyone besides Osamu, and even that gap has been widening. Kita was right, but there’s no turning to him for help now.

Atsumu had made his bed. All that’s left is to lie in it.

He was always happier left alone anyway. He’s never cared about what other people thought of him. So, if Sakusa wants to make sure that distance is maintained, well then, that’s just par for the course for Atsumu.

As with everything, Atsumu gets bored of driving quickly, even as eggs the needle on, getting it closer and closer to one hundred.

He wishes he had the attention span to go all night, make it back to campus just in time for class tomorrow. He wishes he could completely blow Osamu off and forget about the stupid pudding. But if he keeps going, the roaring sound of the wind in his ears is going to drive him crazy. Between that and the slight vibration traveling through his entire body from the car’s engine, he’ll go completely numb and then the darkness will just swallow him right up.

Atsumu comes up on an exit and he takes it.

Osamu is not impressed at the single pudding cup Atsumu throws at him after walking into Suna's room. Atsumu doesn't really care, he's just happy that he caught them actually studying instead of anything else. They're sitting in the middle of the floor with their textbooks and notes spread out around them. Suna got off lucky with a single room when his intended roommate failed to show up at the start of the semester. Atsumu doesn't know why his pain-in-the-ass brother can't just move in.

"Okay," Osamu says slowly. "I know these come in threes. They ain't the best, but I figured, ya know, the three of us could share."

Atsumu shrugs, leaning against the doorframe. It’s a lie he can see from a mile away. Osamu’s just trying to guilt him because he didn’t get exactly what he wanted. "Ya asked me for puddin', I got ya puddin'."

"Ya didn't even get me a spoon though."

"Oh, boohoo, like Sunarin doesn't have a spoon."

Suna leans back on his hands. "Yikes. I have forks," he says. "No spoons. Also, you really didn't get any more pudding?" At Atsumu’s shaking head, he groans, and arms giving out, he falls the rest of the way to the floor.

Atsumu doesn't have to check to know Suna has a fully stocked trunk of food under his bed, meaning he doesn't feel guilty in the slightest for eating the other two pudding cups on the way back, no utensils needed.

"It's not that he didn't get any more," Osamu says, ripping the top off his pudding cup. He hands it to Suna who licks off the excess, still on his back. Osamu then squeezes the cup into his open mouth, the same technique Atsumu had used in the car. "It's that he ate both of them."

Suna cranes his neck against the floor to look at Atsumu upside-down. "Boo, you whore."

"It was payment for going outa my way."

Osamu chucks the empty cup at him, but it barely makes it three quarters of the way before falling pathetically. "I was gonna give ya some, outa the goodness of my heart."

"I paid for them," Atsumu says.

Suna takes out his phone.

Osamu spots him and closes his mouth. That's what makes Atsumu want to cross the room and yank him to his feet by the front of his shirt.

"So, what, now yer datin' Sunarin, yer not gonna argue with me no more?"

Suna drops his arms spread out at his sides, phone still in one of them. "I'm right here, you know."

"Kita-san yelled at me," Osamu admits, and that. That's what makes Atsumu's night. He actually laughs out loud.

"No way," he says, and runs his fingers through his hair that's already wild from the wind. "No way. Kita-san yelled at you?"

Because this is fantastic. Kita hadn't yelled at Atsumu today, which had kept it from being a total loss, absolute bad day. And knowing he'd lectured Osamu instead? Well, Atsumu's flattered.

"Don't look so smug," Osamu mutters, turning back to his notes. "You were totally bein' a dick and deserved it."

"You were bein' a dick, too."

Lazily, Suna raises the hand holding his phone. Atsumu flips him off. There's a click and Suna lets the phone fall again. "You stink like an ashtray. If you don't have more pudding, I'm going to have to ask you to leave," Suna says, smirking by the end of it.

Atsumu raises double birds at them. "Dicks," he says, before kicking the door shut behind him.

He walks back down the hall. The lights are off, but he's positive most of the guys behind all the closed doors are still awake. He's also mostly positive Osamu won't be coming back tonight, not when there are embers of a fight just waiting to be fanned. Plus, Atsumu is in no mood to do anything but fan.

He'd left his phone behind on his bed after two hours of no reply from Sakusa. He likes driving without his phone. It makes him think he could just disappear and nobody would be able to find him. It’s just the tiniest sense of control, a little bit of power held over everyone else, but he grasps it tightly.

Being away from his phone also means that someone, like Sakusa, could have tried to reach him. Means there could be messages or notifications. It feels nice that he could be unknowingly handing back the same passive aggression dealt on him all day. He doesn’t think Sakusa is capable of feeling worry, but there’s an excitement in trying. So, his phone is the first thing Atsumu checks once he’s back in his room.

There’s nothing. No missed calls, no messages, no notifications—his Facebook post is old news and buried by now.

He shouldn’t be disappointed, but he is. Atsumu throws his phone back onto his bed with a little more force than necessary, watches it bounce precariously—takes a second to will it not to fall over the edge—and then turns for his toothbrush once he’s sure it’s safely balancing on the edge of the mattress.

Atsumu can’t stand this passive aggression. He deals with aggression outright with Osamu, but even that has been lingering after the fact lately and he hates it. This silent treatment from Sakusa isn’t going to work, not on their first official day of their fake relationship.

He brushes his teeth vigorously in the restroom and hopes that Osamu or Suna don’t come in. He’s had enough of pretending for today that everything’s alright, and he really doesn’t need a fourth cigarette tonight. Not if he wants any hope of upholding his end of the bargain by doing whatever Sakusa asks of him.

Then there’s the problem that he had told Kita, which was more of a slip of judgement on his part. But who could blame him? All he’d wanted was a pat on the back for doing something right for once. Now he’ll have to hide any sneaky smokes from him along with Sakusa, and when Atsumu inevitably succumbs again, there’ll be more than one person disappointed.

He spits toothpaste into the sink and turns the water off. His bare feet slap against the vinyl flooring on the way back to his room, and he can’t help but think of how Sakusa would be disgusted by it. Atsumu isn’t a messy person by any means, but simply knowing Sakusa reminds him of every little thing that would set the guy off. He wonders if the toothpaste leftover in the sink would make him cringe.

His first instinct is to wonder what else he can do to make him cringe, but then he reminds himself that he really shouldn’t be more of a dick than he can help to the guy he’s fake dating.

In the darkness of his room, his cellphone lights up as he walks in, and Atsumu nearly throws himself across the room, toothbrush tossed haphazardly on his bed—something else that would gross out Sakusa—to get to it in time. The phone screen goes dark just as he gets his hands on it.

When he opens it again, the screen shows a missed call from Sakusa Kiyoomi.

He swipes to return the call right away.

It’s only half a ring before Sakusa picks up.

“That was fast.”

“I was brushin’ my teeth.”

Sakusa clicks his tongue once disapprovingly. “I certainly hope you brushed them longer than that.”

“Shut up,” Atsumu breathes.

He never realized how much effort it took to tiptoe around other people’s fragile emotions. Not that Sakusa is necessarily fragile. Atsumu is just really good at pissing off every single person around him, and it turns out, getting someone to like putting up with you means not making them angry every second them spend with you.

“I have a headache,” he continues, going with being honest instead of snappy. “And I’m mad at you.”

“Sorry.”

Atsumu blinks. “What?”

Sakusa’s sigh rattles through the speaker. “I said _sorry_. I’m the one who asked you to stop smoking, which is why you feel like shit,” Sakusa says, voice betraying nothing. “You can be mad at me if you want, but that’s not going to help you much.”

“I know,” Atsumu grits out. His free hand is fisted in his hair because he’s lying again. First this morning with Kita, and now with Sakusa, who doesn’t know Atsumu’s spent the evening chain smoking.

“I take it that’s why you’re mad at me?”

“It’s not. You blew me off today,” Atsumu says. “Like, totally ignored me. What the hell’s that, Omi-kun?”

Sakusa hesitates. “I was having a bad day,” he eventually says.

“No shit. That makes two of us.”

“I mean, I was having a _bad_ _day_.”

“You can keep sayin’ it over and over again,” Atsumu says. He’s started to pace in the center of the room. “Doesn’t mean I’m gonna magically understand.”

“It’s my mysophobia—”

“Yer germ thing,” Atsumu clarifies.

“—some days are good. Some days aren’t.”

“Meaning,” Atsumu prompts.

“Meaning, some days I can go out in public be normal.”

Atsumu scoffs. Sakusa ignores him.

“And other days,” he continues, “I’ll touch a door handle and feel like scrubbing off every layer of skin from my hand with soap.”

Atsumu winces at the image.

“So, sorry. My bad days make me irritable and I need space. If your acting skills come down to clinginess alone, then I’m not sure this will work out.”

“I really could care less.” Atsumu throws himself onto his bed, forgetting his toothbrush is now lost somewhere in the mix. “But if ya tell me—ya know, when yer bad days are—then maybe I won’t be such a whiny ass. You have yer total control, too, so just say the word. Yer the one doin’ _me_ a favor. Lemme help you in return.”

“Sure, Miya,” Sakusa says, and his tone is dripping in sarcasm, but that’s all he says. No grating remark or insult, so Atsumu tries not to take it too personally.

Because he really is. He’s trying.

“But that helps me, too,” Atsumu says, and he can’t believe he’s going to admit this to Sakusa, but it he doesn’t, the rest of this semester will be hell for both of them and not worth it just to pull one over on his brother. “I need things broken down for me. Otherwise, I overthink and I worry. I don’t care if this all pretend. We’re gonna end up torturin’ each other.”

“Okay,” Sakusa says, agreeable enough.

“And I’m serious, tell me no. If I get pushy or if ya need to draw a line, do it.”

“Oh, trust me, I have no issue with that, Miya.”

Atsumu decides not to think on that response too heavily. Instead, he takes a turn for a topic change. He’s done with all this seriousness. “Also, Kita-san invited you to a freshmen bonfire the SSG are throwing.”

Sakusa’s already groaning.

“Says he wants to meet you all official like,” Atsumu says, his glee mounting now that he’s moving the serious talk is out of the way and Sakusa is letting him.

“Disgusting.”

“Don’t be like that, Omi-Omi. He thought of you specially. It’s outside, not too many people, perfect for you.” Atsumu smirks. “You think yer acting will be up to snuff?”

“I don’t want to hear that from you. All you’ve done so far is be difficult, clingy, and capricious, and I don’t appreciate it.”

Atsumu laughs because he hears the lightness in Sakusa’s voice. It’s so very slight, but it’s there. He can tell the difference from the anxiety that had weighed on his words earlier. He decides to pat himself on the back for that one.

“Then yer definitely not gonna like my next question.”

Sakusa only sighs.

“Will ya hold my hand at the party?” It’s half sincerity hidden behind a teasing tone. Atsumu likes having an escape route.

“Only if you wash your hands.”

Atsumu laughs again. “You make everything feel so old-fashioned. Ya know normal couples just hold hands? Like, they ain’t gotta say nothing. They just do it.”

“You say that, but you’re grateful. You just don’t want to admit it,” Sakusa says. “This is your first relationship—” Atsumu can feel the air quotes around the word “—I’m sure you want to best your brother, but I’m equally positive you just want to test the waters to see if you can hack the real deal.”

“ _No psychoanalyzing_ ,” Atsumu says, but he’s laughing harder now, and his words come out more like a wheeze.

“Sorry, it’s late and you make it too easy,” Sakusa says, not sounding sorry at all this time.

“Besides, I doubt yer any more experienced than me, Omi-Omi. I’m sure yer _mysophobia_ gets in the way.”

“Don’t worry about me, _Miya_. We can go at whatever pace you’re comfortable with. I already said I can keep up.”

Atsumu’s finds his grin stretched wide at his ceiling. He’s glad Osamu’s not here to tease him, though their conversation has definitely invaded flirting territory. It’d probably be good for Osamu to overhear, but at least for now, like Sakusa had said, it makes for good practice.

“Glad we understand each other,” he says. “We’re here to convince ‘Samu, not just play it safe.”

There’s a beat of silence, long enough that Atsumu pulls the phone away from his ear to make sure the call hasn’t been disconnected.

“You still have full power to draw a line wherever you need to,” he repeats, pulling back from the teasing.

Sakusa clears his throat. “I’m fully aware,” he says. “And I’m glad you’re feeling better, Miya.”

Atsumu nearly swallows his tongue on that one. Hearing Sakusa apologize is one thing, but having him say something like _that_ is another. He pushes himself into a sitting position, needing to take stock before he replies too hastily.

Is he feeling better? His headache isn’t as prominent. He’s not feeling the need for a fourth cigarette anymore. He also doesn’t feel the same imminent despair when he thinks of Sakusa. Atsumu hadn’t been looking for reassurance in this phone call. In fact, he fully expected a fight. With Osamu, they always had to fight tooth and nail for whatever they wanted, and it only ended when the other yielded after an excessive of pain or anger or both.

“I am,” he finally says after a few seconds. And he is. “I’ll see ya tomorrow?”

Sakusa huffs. It’s not irritation. It’s not disappointment. In fact, Atsumu’s not sure what it is. “See you tomorrow,” Sakusa replies and hangs up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems the only productive thing I can work on is this fic, haha but I'm glad it's something I can share.
> 
> I hope you're all doing well and staying safe and healthy <3
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://silentmarco.tumblr.com)


	6. You always leave me wanting more

On Wednesday, after hitting his alarm, Atsumu wakes up to a voicemail from his mom. He’d be caught dead before he put his cell phone ringer on, so it’s rare that he ever picks up when his mom calls. A missed call is nothing new, despite the usual surge of adrenaline that he has to call her back.

This morning, it’s worse. She never leaves voicemails unless it’s something important.

And something important doesn’t mean anything good.

Osamu’s still asleep, so Atsumu rolls onto his back, hits play, and presses his phone against his ear.

 _Please call me back, Osamu. We have to talk about your grades. Just because yer avoidin’ me and never talk about school when you_ do _call me back, doesn’t mean I can’t go online and check. You have to bring yer chemistry grade back up. Failed midterms are hard to dig yer way back out of. Love you, but call me._

Atsumu keeps the phone to his ear for a minute after the message ends, his grip tight enough around it that he imagines it breaking, splintering apart.

For the love of god, their mother needs to clean up her act. Atsumu’s starting to wonder if he should be worried about coming home for winter break. Would she even be able to tell them apart anymore?

It’s a rude thought to have, even if he does dismiss it right away. Still.

He and Osamu had given her enough of a break since their dad had cheated, left the country for “work,” and filed for divorce from abroad. Half their second year and their entire third year had been practically lost to their mom while she handled what became a drawn-out process and emotional whiplash of their dad leaving.

It sucks. Atsumu knows that just as well as she and Osamu do, but he would think that she could have cleaned up her act by now. He wishes he could find a more sympathetic way to say that to her, to tell her to stop fucking around and dragging him and Osamu into each other’s problems because she can’t hit call under the correct name, or just plain mixing each other up.

But he doesn’t do sympathetic. He’d been sympathetic enough for the past two years, and that had come down to him not saying anything. He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep his big, fat mouth shut.

Atsumu closes out of the voicemail and brings up his previous text conversation with Sakusa. Time to see how much he can annoy the guy without it going too far.

**Atsumu:** _So there’s this girl that works the coffee place at the gym. She used to work at Starbucks, so she knows all the secret menu items._

**Atsumu:** _If you ask her nicely, she’ll make you a Pink Drink. Strawberries, no blackberries._

**Atsumu:** _It’s not too far outa your way, not for a guy with car lol_

**Atsumu:** _Please and thank you, Omi-Omi ^-^b_

He does not receive a response. His phone sits silently on his desk while he changes into real clothes. After brushing his teeth, there’s still nothing. In the other bed, Osamu’s asleep and Atsumu’s wondering if he should tell him about the voicemail. He’s not sure if their mom would get angry if he were to call her out on calling the wrong twin, but he also doesn’t want to let it slide so easily.

When he blinks, Atsumu realizes he’s been spacing out on his pack of Marlboros on his desk, and he gives his head a shake. He’d gone through Tuesday without a single cigarette, which had left him particularly irritable and a feeling of overall awfulness. He desperately wants to keep up his end of the deal, but he also wants to bring them as a just in case. Like, just in case philosophy is so insufferable today that the sweet rush of nicotine to his brain is his only high point of the day. In case Sakusa has another bad day, leaving him to feel even shittier.

He leaves the pack on his desk and pockets his phone—there’s still nothing from Sakusa—before he leaves. Kita would probably say something like, _A routine isn’t made through willpower alone. It’s made through repetition, deciding every day, every moment to follow through_.

Atsumu hates that he can give himself a bona fide Kita lecture so easily. He hates that it works.

He also hates that he’s leaving early for philosophy just in hopes of Sakusa bringing him his drink. Had he requested the Pink Drink just so Sakusa could walk across campus looking as obnoxious as hell? Yes, but the triumph is shortly lived. After all, Sakusa walks around campus with his offensively bright jackets all the time. He wouldn’t be embarrassed by a girly-looking drink crammed full of strawberries.

A girly-looking drink that just so happens to be Atsumu’s favorite, whether he wanted to get Sakusa going or not.

And he would love to wait outside on this blustery day with chilly winds cutting right through his hoody, but if he stands for one second next to the cigarette receptacle, he’s going to lose his shit.

So, he goes inside, takes his seat, and plops his head into his arms. There’s maybe five other students in the lecture hall, and he hates the fact that he’s here early, that he woke up early so that he could make sure Sakusa looks like a good boyfriend and brings Atsumu’s favorite drink.

He should’ve used the loophole and texted him the night before. Maybe then he could have gotten a few more minutes of sleep.

Takeda comes in then, the only one who pushes both doors open and walks down the steps with a little bounce in his step. He stops next to Atsumu’s row.

“I see someone’s here early,” he says, and he sounds pleased, which makes Atsumu want to crawl under the table. “We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit. Durant. I hope to see you early more often.”

Atsumu muffles a groan into his arm as Takeda continues down the steps. In the silence that follows, Atsumu nearly dozes off, cheek pressed against the plastic table top, arms folded to protect his eyes from the fluorescents. What makes him jump again is something cold and wet bumping his cheek before it’s pulled away so his flailing doesn’t spill it.

Sakusa stands over him, Pink Drink held daintily around the edges, straw trapped between two fingers. Wiping his cheek, Atsumu grins.

“Wasn’t sure you were gonna get it.”

“You’re a menace,” Sakusa says, and sets the drink down before taking his seat. “I dropped your name so the barista knew exactly who to blame for making her run around at the start of her shift.”

Atsumu rips the end of the straw open, brings it to his lips, and blows it Sakusa’s way. His breath catches a kink in the wrapper, and it skews to the right, over the desks edge and beyond his reach. He stabs it through the lid and into the strawberry filled deliciousness within.

“Aw, ya met Yoko?” he asks, taking out his phone for a picture. He just barely gets Sakusa out of focus in the background. “She thinks I’m hot, so she can’t be too upset.”

Sakusa’s stare is expressionless, but somehow it still feels like he’s saying, _I should’ve known_. “I figured you would’ve had some obnoxious order with twelve ingredients I’d have to remember,” he says instead. “Though I can’t say this didn’t meet my expectations all the same.”

“What,” Atsumu says, mouth full and a third of the drink already gone. “This not obnoxious enough for ya, Omi-kun? I don’t have a tricky drink order, but I can look something up if it’ll help ya sleep at night.”

“No,” Sakusa says hurriedly but sounding tired as he goes through his bag for his notes. “I can remember this just fine.”

In one hand, Atsumu opens Instagram on his phone, in the other, he pries open the lid and starts stabbing for strawberries, bringing them to his mouth. He picks a filter, types something out, chooses some hashtags, and then turns the phone for Sakusa to see.

“Do I have yer all clear to post?”

Sakusa squints at the screen, probably reading the _My boyfriend’s better than your boyfriend_ text.

“I thought I told you I didn’t want to get caught up in any sibling drama,” he says, leaning back.

Atsumu turns the phone back around. “It’s not. Just yer generic _wow_ , ain’t my boyfriend awesome? That kinda post.”

“Then just say that.”

Atsumu snorts through his nose. Does Sakusa have no competitive drive? Not saying that dating was a competition, but social media posting in general was, at least in Atsumu’s opinion. He doesn’t post often, but when he does, he makes sure that every picture, every status update contains a single moment of excitement. Proof of living his best life, even if every other second doesn’t always feel that way.

“Whatever, Omi-Omi. I’m postin’ it.”

Sakusa shrugs, and Atsumu posts the picture. It goes to Instagram, Stories, and Facebook for good measure. He even takes a selfie when Sakusa isn’t paying attention, throwing up a victory sign, but he still asks approval to add it to his Story, which Sakusa begrudgingly gives.

* * *

Kiyoomi does not want to go to this bonfire party. It’s a Thursday and he has homework and he’s already off campus in his apartment. If it were any other night, he would take an early shower before shutting himself into his room and finishing his philosophy reading for tomorrow.

It’s also been nearly two weeks since agreeing to be Atsumu’s fake boyfriend. A quiet almost two weeks. Quieter than Kiyoomi had expected after the way things had started out. He’d been glad when Atsumu had no big weekend plans to attempt to drag him to. Neither had Komori. It was a pleasant weekend in with everyone seemingly recovering from midterm celebrations. Once again, most classes were back to assigning weekend homework loads, but that didn’t keep Atsumu from texting him.

Beyond the more frequent communication, pretending to date Atsumu is surprisingly not very different than they’d been before. Sure, Atsumu tries not to lose his temper as much, and Kiyoomi does nice things for him to post about on social media, but their overall chemistry hasn’t changed.

He’s not saying he’s disappointed. Atsumu hasn’t even tried holding his hand yet. Kiyoomi is just…afraid of getting too comfortable. With Atsumu, he’d never expected that to be a risk.

Whether he wants to go or not, Kiyoomi hears Komori getting ready in the other room, and he had already said he’d drive. So, Kiyoomi resigns himself to his fate, gets up, and goes to his closet to find something to wear.

Kiyoomi’s wardrobe is made for autumn. It’s full of patterned button downs with short sleeves and jackets to layer on overtop. Komori had made fun of him once for the wild patterns and bright colors, saying that if he didn’t want to be noticed, why stand out so much?

Kiyoomi has always preferred to think of it like a venomous snake or a poisonous frog. They were pretty to look at, but dangerous to touch. Kiyoomi wore his bright colors in hopes of warning others from getting too close.

He’s already in black chinos, and he’d pick white sneakers if he wasn’t going to be tromping around outside all night. He goes with a darker boot instead. It’s a pretty dull ensemble so far, so he scans for something brighter. His shiny gold windbreaker catches his eye as well as an aqua sweatshirt. It’s the softest thing he owns and just slightly too big. A miracle for someone as tall and broad shouldered as him.

They’re not exactly autumnal colors, but it’s going to work for tonight. He envisions the firelight bouncing off the gold. Its pockets are big for whatever he needs to bring with him, and between it and the sweatshirt, he’ll be warm if the temperature drops.

He thinks Atsumu would like gold, too. He was an athlete once, and he’s certainly pretentiousness enough to retain that particular sense of arrogance.

“You ready—ah—” Komori opens his door and stands there “—you’re wearing the jacket that hurts my eyes.”

“I could’ve worn the one with sequence.”

Komori mocks a gasp. “You would never,” he says. “Seriously. You’d never risk wearing that thing to a bonfire.”

Kiyoomi adjusts his jacket over his shoulders. “You’re right.”

The drive to campus is short, but it’s the separation Kiyoomi likes. The change of scenery is a blessing after a stressful day, especially now that he’s used to it. During the first week, everything had been awful, and there was no escaping it. No single moment of peace. There was simply enduring it until habits stuck and routine gave his new life order, and he felt in control again.

It’s easy to find parking. Some spaces are open next to the fieldhouse’s tiny lot, which is close to the west lawn. All of the professors are off campus and the commuters are either gone or partying somewhere else. Most freshmen live on campus.

The automatic lamps are lit, and there’s just a hint of sunset left on the horizon. Smoke is trailing up into the sky from the direction of the lawn, but from the parking lot, Kiyoomi doesn’t see the flames yet.

“You alright with finding a ride home?” Kiyoomi asks as he and Komori step out of his car. He glances Komori’s way to gauge the reaction he’s already expecting. “Just in case.”

Komori doesn’t disappoint. Eyebrows raised, lips smug, he plays innocent all the same. “Oh? Are you planning on drinking tonight, Kiyoomi?”

Kiyoomi’s eyes narrow. “Motoya,” he says with a hint of warning and Komori laughs.

“I can take care of myself,” Komori says. “Just as long as you do the same.”

Kiyoomi’s scowl deepens, and tonight, Komori can actually see it. Since they’ll be outside, Kiyoomi had decided to go without a mask. It had been a good day so far. He wasn’t feeling everything as much. Hopefully tonight wouldn’t crash and burn, but just in case, he had an extra mask in his pocket.

He plans to see how things go. After all, this is his first party with Atsumu, and he doesn’t want to condemn it so early, but if he has to take the edge off, then he’s prepared. He downloaded the Uber app onto his phone earlier. The thought of using it makes him physically sick, but he’s not going to ask Komori to be designated driver when he’s the only one of the two of them who wants to be here.

Komori gives him a wave and parts from him as they step onto the lawn. The air is smoky, but it’s a distinctly autumn scent. It’s gotten colder since the sun went down, which makes the air noticeably warmer the closer Kiyoomi gets to the fire.

It’s an impressive tower of logs and cardboard and it shoots burning ash into the sky to mix with the smoke. Kiyoomi’s not sure who would have approved this, but if it’s headed by Kita Shinsuke, Kiyoomi thinks any faculty member would have a hard time saying no.

Kita is reliable like that. He’s dependable. At least, that’s what Kiyoomi has heard.

Also, it appears that everyone can trust there to still be alcohol at an event thrown by the Sophomore Student Government President.

Kiyoomi would have expected someone like Kita to have shut that down at once, but that doesn't seem to be the case. There are open coolers full of beer, sodas, and melting ice, and they act as points to congregate with at least five people hovering over each one. That's no surprise, but what does catch his attention is the single foldout table, covered in bottles of liquor and a single bag of Sunchips. The chips are unopened, but plenty of people have already started making drinks. Kiyoomi considers the half bottle of rum and scattered plastic cups littering the ground.

"Omi-Omi! Ya made it!"

Kiyoomi turns toward the fire and squints. Atsumu is almost a burnt-out shadow with the fire at his back. Kiyoomi angles away to keep the bright sports from dotting his vision and to better make him out.

Atsumu looks better tonight. He'd been pale and jittery all week, and though Kiyoomi wasn't about to take his request back, he still felt guilty about it. Atsumu still has the dark circles, and maybe it's the firelight giving his face more color. His hair is damp and curls a little without any product to control it. He must’ve showered before coming.

Without the fire, Atsumu would probably disappear into the dark with the amount of black he's wearing, which is nothing new. Kiyoomi just hasn't seen him at night like this. His black jeans are ripped open and frayed at his knees and thighs, and he's wearing his usual black hoodie. The only addition is the oversized cardigan he has pulled on overtop. It seems to swallow him up and makes him look small.

"I told you I would," Kiyoomi says.

Atsumu walks right up to him, and his hand reaches out to latch onto Kiyoomi's sleeve. Kiyoomi stares down at it.

"I like yer jacket," Atsumu says and rubs the material between his fingers. "Very flashy."

“Thanks,” Kiyoomi says, and then there’s just the crackle of the fire mingled with the buzz of conversation and a stray whoop behind them from someone doing shots.

Atsumu hasn’t released his jacket.

“So,” he starts, “Kita said he wants to meet you.”

Instantly, Kiyoomi’s palms prick with sweat. “Why?”

Atsumu shrugs, look nonchalant about it, eyes trained to his fingers pinching Kiyoomi’s jacket. “Dunno.” He looks up.” He’s weird like that? Prolly thinks I make bad decisions.”

“Oh.” Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow. “Am I a bad decision?”

Atsumu grins. “Prolly. But Kita won’t think so.”

Kiyoomi’s not too sure about that. If anyone can see through Atsumu’s lie, it’ll probably be Kita.

“But before that—” Atsumu’s grip wraps around Kiyoomi’s wrist over the sleeve “—I need a drink. Ain’t no way I’m dealin’ with any o’ that without a buzz.”

Kiyoomi lets himself be dragged, glad that Atsumu was the one to suggest it.

Atsumu releases him at the table and crouches to go through the coolers beneath. Kiyoomi hears the clinking of bottles and slushing sounds of ice as he picks a bottle of vodka, opens an unopened bag of cups, and fills it just over the bottom line. Before Atsumu gets to his feet, Kiyoomi has knocked one back and pours another.

“Whoa, tiger,” Atsumu says, popping back up, hands empty.

Kiyoomi locks eyes with him, bring the cup back to his lips, and lets the second shot hit the back of his throat. It only burns a little. Just because he’s the designate driver more often than not, doesn’t mean he’s some lightweight.

“What’re you having?” he asks while he pours more vodka before he bends over to fish out a Sprite.

Atsumu surveys the table. “Not sure yet,” he says. “Haven’t found anything I like.”

“Picky.” Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. Atsumu pouts. They wonder away from the table to another cooler out in the open. Atsumu doesn’t reach for his arm again, and when they find nothing but beer, they move onto the next.

“Here,” comes a soft voice from behind by the third cooler.

It’s Kita, haloed by the firelight like Atsumu had been minutes ago. He holds out a six pack of Smirnoff, which Atsumu grabs.

“I got more in my cooler. Aran’s over there guardin’ it.” He nods toward the other side of the fire.

“Kita-san, yer the best,” Atsumu breathes out, already twisting the top off of one with his sleeve over his hand. The bottle is full of bright red liquid, and Atsumu downs nearly half of it in one go.

Kiyoomi has the urge to hide his cup from Kita behind his back, but he refrains. It’s a silly thought, especially considering Kita had appeared bearing alcohol.

“We know each other, but we haven’t been introduced before,” Kita says, his attention on Kiyomi now. “I would’ve been surprised when I heard you two were datin’, but then, I was too busy makin’ sure he and Osamu didn’t kill each other.”

Atsumu chokes. “Ya cut right to the chase, don’tcha,” he mutters and finishes the bottle.

Kiyoomi opens his mouth and stares at Atsumu. Maybe taking two shots wasn’t the best idea. “That’d make two of us, but he’s not bratty all the time, and he cares more than he lets on.”

“I’d hate to ask what made you come to that conclusion,” Kita says, but he doesn’t sound reluctant at all. In fact, he looks a bit smug, as if pleased not everyone hates Atsumu. Like that’s some hard-fought victory.

Kiyoomi looks Atsumu’s way again, and Atsumu shrugs, giving him the go-ahead to fabricate what he wants. Kiyoomi smirks. He doesn’t have to fabricate anything at all.

“He was doing some basic bitching about philosophy,” Kiyoomi starts, causing Atsumu to look affronted. “We were given a class period to study and work through problems with the professor right before midterms, and of course Atsumu was complaining a few seats over, but he was reciting the quotes perfectly.” He casts his eyes back to Atsumu, who’s staring, the bottle pressed against his lower lip. “He could’ve gotten a better grade if he hadn’t been so concerned with the quote memorization section.”

Atsumu blinks, then his eyebrows narrow. “I was not _basic bitchin’_.”

Kita laughs. “That sounds like Atsumu,” he says and smiles at Atsumu fondly. “Ya get tunnel vision when yer stressed.”

“See?” Atsumu grumbles, wrestling another bottle out of the cardboard package. The glass bottle clink together. “This is why I didn’t wantcha t’meet. Y’all gang up on me.”

Kiyoomi watches him for a moment as he drinks angrily. Kiyoomi only takes sips of his own drink, but with a sigh through his nose, he decides he’d better play the good fake boyfriend and cheer Atsumu up, though he hadn’t meant to set him off in the first place.

“And when I was the one who confessed, he was sweet about not makin’ it a big deal,” he says, and the color rises on Atsumu’s cheeks. “He may be obnoxious, but nobody has made sacrifices to match my needs before—the germ thing—and I appreciate that he’s trying.”

“’m gonna puke.”

Kiyoomi’s and Kita’s eyes snap to Atsumu, who flinches at their sudden looks.

“Not literally,” he mutters. “God, I’ve had two drinks. ‘m just not drunk enough for sappy shit.” Then, he stalks off away from the fire, leaving Kiyoomi alone with Kita.

Kita watches him go for a moment before he gestures Kiyoomi with a flick of his head. They circle the fire, close enough that it keeps away the cold. Kiyoomi would be fine without his windbreaker, but there’s no way he’s giving that up. Distantly, someone starts up music from a cellphone attached to a speaker. It doesn’t carry loud enough for Kiyoomi to make out the lyrics, but he can tell it’s country and so can everyone else. A number of people groan and the song switches to some nondescript.

They pass by Aran, who’s sitting on top of a cooler, and a few others, including Osamu and Suna. They offer vague greetings between half-raised hands and “Hey” said under their breaths. Kiyoomi meets their gaze and takes a drink.

“Where’s ‘Tsumu?” Osamu asks.

Kiyoomi stops and squints out past the firelight. It’s hard to see where he’s ended up, but he’s sure Atsumu’s out there somewhere. “He went to grab another drink,” he tells Osamu, and it’s probably true.

Osamu shrugs and believes it, and Kiyoomi catches up with Kita until they’re farther from the group.

And they stand and look at the fire. And Kiyoomi feels he should say something or that he should drink more. He wants to empty his cup so he can toss it somewhere to keep from carrying it around, but he thinks like drinking more too quickly would be a bad idea with Kita’s eyes on him.

Finally, he gives in. “I didn’t think you’d be one to endorse underage drinking, Kita-san,” he says.

“I don’t,” Kita replies. “But if beers and wine coolers are the worst everyone gets up to tonight, I’ll consider it a success.”

Kiyoomi decides not to bring up the vodka shots being done on the other side of the flames, and the ones he’d done as well. “Even Atsumu?”

“What about Atsumu?”

“Nothing, it’s just—” Kiyoomi looks at him out of the corner of his eye “—like you keep your kohais on a short leash,” he continues and holds his breath, waiting for Kita to get angry.

But Kita laughs instead, smiles, and for a second, Kiyoomi gets what Atsumu sees in him. “Do I,” he says. “No, if I had things my way, Atsumu wouldn’t smoke at all. Osamu would actually study for his exams instead of gettin’ distracted by Rintarou. Atsumu wouldn’t rile up his brother, and Osamu wouldn’t be the first to lash back.”

Kiyoomi swallows, suddenly feeling he’s been slid under a microscope for Kita to view all of his flaws. Like Kita might start listing them all out to him right now, too.

“But I can’t control everything, and I’ve learned that I can’t force them to make the right decisions,” Kita continues. “They have to make their own mistakes.”

“Like lung cancer,” Kiyoomi says drily, and Kita lifts one shoulder in a shrug.

“I know you must feel the same way about it as I do. I have no idea why he picked up that habit, but I know what happens at colleges. If I can draw the line at cigarettes and strawberry flavored wine coolers, then that’s where the line is, and I won’t push. If Atsumu wants to self-destruct, I’d rather he play with the idea instead of making choices he can’t come back from.”

 _Self-destruct_. The word sends a chill up Kiyoomi’s spine. He thought all Atsumu had were bad habits.

“I’ll agree that there’s plenty worse out there than smoking, but why would he want to self-destruct?”

“Attention,” Kita says, his eyes trained on the flames licking up at the sky, then seems to catch himself and he blinks at Kiyoomi. “I don’t mean it in a bad way. I think he’s tryin’ to do it to separate himself from Osamu.”

That observation doesn’t fully track for Kiyoomi. He was positive Atsumu had been trying to keep up with his twin. That if Osamu was growing up and having relationships and first kisses and whatever else, then he should be, too. He thought Atsumu was combatting the new realm of college and the fear of growing apart from his lifetime partner-in-crime.

But Kita isn’t finished.

“He wants to make his own choices, but I don’t think he’s ready to see Osamu do that as well.” Kita’s words fizzle out, replaced from the crackling of the fire and snapping of branches succumbing to the heat. “I learned early that the easiest thing to control is yerself and yer own actions. I’m sure Atsumu realizes that, too. He just might think tearin’ himself apart is more satisfyin’. After all, when you go lookin’ to hurt, you usually find the quickest results.”

Kiyoomi fidgets away. He’s a little kid again and the grownups are talking and he can see the dust particles in the air, reflecting off sunlight, descending on his skin, but nobody else can see. He can’t feel them, but he can _feel them_. Kita’s words are like the dust. 

His arms itch, but he does not scratch.

It’s probably just the smoke.

“I’ll—” he coughs into his elbow “—I’ll keep that in mind, Kita-san.”

And though Kita had been looking more and more concerned as he spoke, his face relaxes and he smiles at Kiyoomi. “Thank you, Sakusa. If he becomes too much of a handful, let me know.”

Kiyoomi nods. “I’m gonna…” He gestures away and then stalks off, draining his cup so he can crumple it up and throw it in the nearest trash bin. He moves away from the fire, and the cold night air is a welcomed escape. A clean breath of fresh air. He walks toward the only other figure that’s out this far, just beyond the fire’s glow, and he can feel the eyes of Atsumu’s friends glancing his way as Kita returns to them. Atsumu’s not far beyond them, still within orbit.

Atsumu doesn’t notice Kiyoomi until he stops alongside him, and when he does, he jumps.

“ _Shit_ ,” he hisses, and Kiyoomi spies a lit cigarette between his lips. Immediately, Atsumu makes a move to grab it.

“It’s fine,” Kiyoomi sighs. “Quitting’s hard, and you’ve had a rough few days of it.”

Atsumu still pulls the cigarette from his lips and stares at it. “I was doin’ a real good job, too,” he says before bringing it back to his lips. “But then I started drinkin’ and realized it wasn’t as fun. But you know what is fun? Look—smoke rings!”

Kiyoomi looks upward as Atsumu blows smoky circles into the sky. Some are shaky or fall apart but most are decent.

“When I started smokin’, I knew I had to teach myself.”

“So you started smoking so you could learn a party trick,” Kiyoomi says.

“No—I just picked it up. Figured, ya know, if ‘m here, gonna do something fun with it.”

Kiyoomi opens his mouth to argue the point, but it’s clear that Atsumu is drunk. On the bad cycle of nicotine and alcohol that never cures itself, but Kiyoomi is not exactly sober either.

“Did Kita put the fear o’ god in ya?” Atsumu murmurs when Kiyoomi doesn’t say anything.

“Something like that,” Kiyoomi says.

With the cigarette between his lips again, Atsumu hums. He’s given up on the smoke rings. “Yeah, I bet he did.” He reaches down between his feet, almost falls over, and retrieves two Smirnoffs. The last two, and Kiyoomi’s not positive if it’s the same pack he started with. “Want one? They’re my favorite.”

Kiyoomi takes it and squints at the label. “What’s it with you and strawberries?”

Atsumu whirls to look at him, arms out for balance. He laughs. “What, can’t I like somethin’?” His face is flushed, and he rocks a bit on his feet. “I like sweet things, Omi. If _you_ were sweet, maybe I’d like ya, too.”

Kiyoomi’s face contorts into some kind of expression. “It’s not in my disposition,” he says, and hands the Smirnoff back to Atsumu.

“More for me,” he chirps and drops the bottle to land somewhere near their feet.

“Are you having fun?” Kiyoomi asks.

“Absolutely—” he stumbles his way through the word “—Kita totally thinks yer my boyfriend, I got to drink and smoke, and I got to see you _drunk_.”

Kiyoomi crosses his arms over his chest. “How do you know I’m drunk.”

“Uhh, ya let me smoke? Yer not cowerin’ over all the—” he waves wildly at the party behind them “—debauchery goin’ on like ya were when I found ya at that frat house.” He takes a long drink, long enough that Kiyoomi thinks he’s done talking. “Everyone thinks I’ve got a hot boyfriend. I’m on top of the fuckin’ world, Omi.”

He doesn’t particularly sound like it. He just sounds drunk, sort of like when he asked Kiyoomi to pretend to be his boyfriend.

Kiyoomi hates him. He hates Atsumu because he doesn’t look a thing like he had in that frat house. There, he’d looked like he could belong. Here, he’s soft, standing just on the outskirts of everything, shivering, and grasping tightly to his strawberry Smirnoff in one hand and his cigarette in the other.

Kiyoomi hates him because the difference in two weeks is striking, but he loves the look of him just as much as he did then. He hoped that pretending to be Atsumu’s boyfriend would change that.

“Have I done a good enough job tonight?” Kiyoomi asks. “I don’t exactly know your expectations for things like this…”

“Ya didn’t even hold my hand, Omi. But whatever. If Kita believes ya, then everyone else will, too,” Atsumu grumbles. “It’s not like ya gotta convince me.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t like the idea that comes to mind next, but he’s inebriated enough that his mind doesn’t reject it right away. Then his traitorous mouth opens without his permission.

“I could make it up to you.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other before he turns to face Atsumu. “You said I get to set the boundaries, so you can thank me later.”

Atsumu smirks and pushes the butt of his cigarette into his mostly empty Smirnoff bottle. “I’d like to see ya try. What, are ya gonna hold my hand where no one can see?”

Kiyoomi leans in and personally wipes that smirk away, one hand on Atsumu’s shoulder—his cardigan is coarse and rough but warm—his lips pressed over Atsumu’s rigid ones, unyielding for just a moment. The empty Smirnoff bottle drops to the ground. For second, the fact that Kiyoomi has managed to catch Atsumu off guard is a thrill. But then Atsumu’s lips go soft and pliant, and he reaches between them and takes a fistful of Kiyoomi’s jacket to keep himself upright.

Atsumu smells of smoke—fire smoke and cigarette smoke—it all blends together and attaches to every fiber of him. When Kiyoomi runs his tongue over Atsumu’s bottom lip, he tastes it, too. He should be disgusted. He should be gagging and pushing him away, but the smoke is already surrounding him and there’s nowhere else for him to go.

If he were sober, it would be an entirely different story, but he’s not and he’s kissing Miya Atsumu and it’s not the worst thing in the world.

And when he licks into Atsumu’s mouth, there’s the syrupy sweet aftertaste of artificial strawberry and alcohol. Atsumu clumsily kisses back, both hands attached to Kiyoomi’s jacket now, keeping his balance while pulling Kiyoomi forward.

Kiyoomi lasts until the smoke starts to scratch his throat and he nearly coughs into Atsumu’s mouth, so he leans back and drops his hand from Atsumu’s shoulder. The hands stay clenched on his jacket.

“Wha’ the hell was that?” Atsumu sputters, sounding hoarse. His eyes are wide and, damn, it squeezes around Kiyoomi’s heart. “Ain’t nobody here to see.”

“Really?” Kiyoomi glances over his shoulder. “Your friends have been keeping an eye on you all night. All while you’ve been over here being emo by yourself.”

Atsumu’s gaze shifts past Kiyoomi to check for himself.

“They’re thinking, _Sakusa wouldn’t dare kiss Atsumu if they weren’t serious, right_?” Kiyoomi continues. “You’re just lucky I did those shots earlier.”

Atsumu stares at him for a moment, licks his lips, and Kiyoomi restrains himself from doing the same. He still tastes the smoke and Smirnoff.

“Lucky,” Atsumu murmurs and takes Kiyoomi’s hand. “C’mon.”

His hand is freezing, a mix from the cold night and the bottle he’d been holding, because he graciously keeps from using the hand that held the cigarette. Kiyoomi thinks about the other bottle left behind, but he doesn’t mention it. He’s too distracted by Atsumu’s cold fingers.

He walks them right up to the fire. By now, most everyone has fallen back, cooling off in the shadows or around coolers, pouring new drinks, or heading out to other parties. Atsumu releases his hand and takes a few steps closer. This close, the fire is sweltering. Kiyoomi’s not sure how Atsumu stands it.

Atsumu spreads his arms wide, and from this angle, he glows, almost consumed by the large flames. The party may be dying down, but the fire isn’t. It roars, and Atsumu grins and looks as if he could burn up right on the spot.

After a minute, he turns and grabs Kiyoomi’s hand again. His fingers are warmer but not much, and that brief warmth quickly fades. “Let’s get another drink.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been looking forward to this chapter, but then it just developed as I was going and so now I'm super excited for it. And it was clearly inspired by the song from the chapter title haha
> 
> Also, it's the longest chapter so far! I just had too many ideas I wanted to get in ^^
> 
> Thank you so much for the lovely comments and kudos!
> 
> Edit: Look at [this amazing art](https://m-art-i.tumblr.com/post/636515196276473856/atsumu-spreads-his-arms-wide-and-from-this) done of the last part of the chapter by [marti](https://m-art-i.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://silentmarco.tumblr.com)


	7. I just pinch myself, no longer comatose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter includes an anxiety attack. It's from an outside POV in the first section, but the second section gets into it. Also in the second section, there is self harm from scratching brought up. If you need to, you can skip these sections and go to the third.

Atsumu doesn't remember falling asleep, but he had apparently remembered to set an alarm, and it cracks the silence like a blow to his head just after seven the next morning.

And he wants to die—no, he feels like he's already dead, but that's wrong, too, because surely you can't feel this way when you're dead.

He should probably just skip philosophy. He wouldn't want to disappoint Takeda so soon after setting high expectations by coming to class early for the past week. Then again, Takeda was the one setting himself up for failure, expecting Atsumu to do anything beyond the bare minimum. It's not like he did the reading either, so he'll just get a few extra hours of sleep and pick up his afternoon classes well-rested.

Atsumu burrows his head into his pillow but freezes the moment his noise squashes into something hard and boney and smelling of smoke. In fact, his entire bed smells like smoke.

He's suddenly aware of his arm thrown across another body, a leg trapped between both of his, and as disoriented as he is, he's positive this is his bed. He hadn't accidentally crawled into Osamu's last night. The chest beneath his hand rises with a quivering breath.

Atsumu pulls his head up just enough to see Sakusa, who's gazing expressionlessly at the ceiling and taking long, shaky breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth.

"Hm," Atsumu observes listlessly. "Ya know, there's only one thing I really remember from last night, and it doesn't have anything to do with you ending up in my bed, Omi-kun."

"I need you," Sakusa’s voice cracks out haltingly, "to get off me." He sounds very much like a man with a hangover. "Now." And a germaphobe—the reminder which makes Atsumu push himself up immediately and trip out of bed despite his own hangover. 

He lands on the floor, butt hitting the ground hard, and he feels like he’s been spun around one too many times. He lets the momentum carry him until he's sprawled out on his back, ceiling spinning overhead. On the bed, Sakusa doesn't move. Across the room, Osamu's bed is empty. Atsumu closes his eyes so this incredibly small world of his can stop spinning around him.

His head pounds. His mouth is dry. He digs the palms of his hands into his eyes until he sees stars. He lets out a heavy breath.

"That was my first kiss," he says slowly, letting his hands fall above his head. "Last night...ya know. Omi-Omi."

Atsumu feels like dying, but he's also very interested in watching Sakusa sit up achingly slow and turn until his legs hang over the side of the bed. He doesn't look like he knows where to put his hands. They hover—almost going to his hair—before they settle on his knees.

The room has stopped spinning. Now it only wobbles.

"Omi," Atsumu says softly when he still doesn't say anything.

Finally, Sakusa looks at him. "Why am I not back at my apartment."

His voice isn't that loud, but it's too loud for the hour and for Atsumu's overwhelming feeling of shittiness.

"I dunno," he says. "Obviously ya couldn't drive."

Sakusa looks on the verge of an aneurysm, which must take a considerable amount of effort given the hangover.

"When did you wash your sheets last?" he asks after a second, voice lower.

Atsumu heaves out a sigh. "Last weekend. Sunday. And I shower at night, so even better, huh?"

"And I'm in last night's clothes." It's more of a resignation than a question.

"Ya even got the jacket still on."

Atsumu can see it building. The back-and-forth of the eyes, the clenching and unclenching hands over his knees, the clamped jaw. The meticulous breathing. It’s someone well experienced with anxiety attacks just on the verge of one. There's nothing Atsumu can say that will reassure Sakusa.

But he can try.

"Shower's two doors down. I've got clean towels. Maybe something that'll fit ya to change into."

Sakusa visibly pales. "Public restrooms."

"Hey, I've got shower shoes." Atsumu points at a pair of flip flops next to the door.

“And how often do you clean them.”

Atsumu hesitates, starting to flounder. “They, uh, get washed in the shower?” He may not be as disgusting as a teenage boy comes, but he’ll never be up to Sakusa’s standards.

Whatever willpower keeps Sakusa’s hands on his knees gives out as he bends over and buries his face in them. His fingertips massage into his forehead before running back through his hair where they latch on. “This is ridiculous,” comes his muffled voice. “I should’ve planned for something like this to happen.”

Atsumu sits up, elbows braced on his knees, and he stares up at Sakusa. “Alright,” he says. “Shit’s fucked. Where do we start.”

“I don’t…” His voice is even fainter muffled into the palms of his hands. “…I don’t know.”

“What’s the most unbearable?” Atsumu presses. The words carry a stale taste, but he doesn’t think about that. “I have everything here for you to start. Then you can go back to yer apartment to finish yer routine.”

“We still have class.”

Atsumu scowls. “Forget about class. _I’m_ the one who’s going. _I’m_ the one who’s gettin’ notes, so forget about class,” he says, putting more force behind his words now that Sakusa’s responding. “What’s the most unbearable, Sakusa?”

Sakusa’s head snaps up, his face wearing the most contemptuous expression that Atsumu has ever seen on him. “ _I don’t know, Miya_ ,” he says through his teeth, but the anger in his voice dries up as he continues, hand sliding over his mouth so he talks into his palm again. “All I can taste is bile. I’m _not_ supposed to be in your room. My damn pants are sticking to my legs, and everything smells like smoke. _Everything’s_ unbearable.”

“Okay.” Atsumu rolls to his feet just as the door clicks open. He glances back and there’s Osamu poking his head in. His eyes move between Atsumu and Sakusa, and his eyebrows lift. Frowning, Atsumu gives a flick of his head, and Osamu is gone, door shut silently behind him.

Sakusa doesn’t seem to have noticed. He stares intently at the floor as he gnaws at a knuckle while his other hands scratches at the back of his neck.

“Okay. Shit’s fucked,” Atsumu says again, louder this time, and Sakusa looks at him. “But one thing at a time,” he says, and goes to his closet. There’s a box of extra toiletries his mom had packed, and just like he expected, he finds an unopened toothbrush and a travel-sized tube of toothpaste, also unopened. He turns and holds them out for Sakusa. “By the time ya get back, I’ll have stuff for ya to shower with.”

Sakusa stares a moment longer before Atsumu gives the toothbrush a shake.

“Brush yer nasty teeth and then ya can shower.”

It takes Sakusa forever to stand. There seems so much of him needing to unfold and even when he does, he still stands there with his shoulders hunched up to his ears. He takes the toothbrush and toothpaste without a word, jacket sleeves pulled down over his hands, and leaves.

For a second, Atsumu just stands there, alone in the middle of his room. His hangover pounds against his temples harder than before without the distraction and he’s itching for a smoke. Hell, he’d even settle for a drive right now. A really long, really fast drive to nowhere.

_“What’s most unbearable?” Kita asked near the end of Atsumu’s second year._

_“Nothin’,” Atsumu said at first. After returning from Tokyo, they were the last ones in the locker room. Yesterday was their last game of the season and it had been a loss. Then, he says, “Yer graduatin’ next month and expectin’ me to be some kinda captain.”_

_Kita was the only one no longer appearing upset by the loss. By the fact that the year was over for him, and it made Atsumu feel even worse. “Okay,” Kita said. “So, what’s one thing ya can do to prepare for that?”_

_“Play more volleyball.”_

_Kita stared at him for a moment, arms crossed, one finger tapping against his bicep. It was a long moment. “What’s really most unbearable thing, Atsumu?”_

_Atsumu shot his burning eyes away, anywhere but at Kita. “My dad’s gone,” he said. “And I don’t know where to start.”_

Atsumu finds Sakusa’s shoes kicked under his bed and he sets them out side-by-side. He has a clean towel and washcloth folded on the upper shelf of the closet. He places those on the bed and retrieves his shower caddy. He’ll admit, it’s not the cleanest. Give it another month, and mold will probably start forming at the bottom from where the excess water collects and never completely dries. Sakusa would absolutely hate it, so Atsumu removes the body wash and shampoo, which is specifically for his treated hair, but Sakusa will just have to deal with it.

In the bottom of his drawers, he finds his baggiest pair of sweatpants, but he’s still worried they won’t be long enough for Sakusa. Back to the closet, Atsumu hasn’t officially deemed it full-on sweater season yet—last night’s cardigan was an exception—so the olive green sweater he pulls out still smells like home. It’s got big sleeves and a high collar. He loves the way he drowns in it, so it should fit Sakusa just fine. He throws it onto the bed with everything else.

He pokes his head out the door. No sign of Sakusa yet and Osamu is nowhere to be found. He’s probably still holed up in Suna’s room. _That’ll_ have to be a conversation later, but not now.

As Atsumu swings the door shut, something bumps against it from the other side. Stepping out, he finds a plastic shopping bag tied shut and hanging from the doorknob. The knot is tied too tightly to get loose, so he rips a hole in the side as he retreats back into his room.

There’s tea, orange juice, lemonade. There’s a bottle of aspirin. There are plastic wrapped biscuits and pastries and even mochifuwa pancakes.

At the bottom of the bag, is a pack of gum with a sticky note pressed to it. Damn Kita. Atsumu only sees that the gum is to help with nicotine cravings before he’s biting down on his lip to keep from tearing up and the door opens behind him.

“My socks are wet.”

Atsumu turns and Sakusa stands glowering in the doorway. He doesn’t look like he’s about to vomit anymore, so Atsumu marks that as progress.

“Shoulda worn yer shoes,” Atsumu says and throws the pack of gum back into the bag on his bed. He grabs his backpack and crosses the room to slip on his shoes next to Sakusa. “There’s everything ya need. I have to run to class. ‘Samu’s around here somewhere if there’s anything else, but I’ll tell Takeda ya came down with something. Oh, and there’s stuff for yer hangover on the bed. Help yerself.”

Atsumu’s teeth are scuzzy and he’s still wearing last night’s clothes, along with the smoke and whatever else has clung to him, but there’s no time if he wants to get to class. He told Sakusa he’d go.

Sakusa stands over the bed, toothbrush in one hand, toothpaste in the other. He stares down at everything laid out.

Atsumu grabs his phone and keys and opens the door. “Feel better, Omi,” he says and leaves.

* * *

Kiyoomi wants to go to his classes—he has philosophy, freshmen orientation class, and freshmen writing—but he also wants to disappear into his own room and never leave again. So, he showers slowly in Atsumu’s dorm. Meaning, he showers as quickly as possible, but time still drags on until he feels like he’s been under the scalding water for hours. He dries off with Atsumu’s towel, which to its credit, does smell of detergent. Then, he walks back to Atsumu’s room, walking on the balls of his feet so his heels so spill out over the edges of the flip fops, and puts on the clothes Atsumu set out for him.

Last night’s clothes are folded and wrapped inside his jacket, still reeking of smoke. Despite his quick wash, _he_ still smells faintly of it, too.

Atsumu has forgotten socks, but Kiyoomi doesn’t waste time worrying. Osamu hasn’t made an appearance, and he would rather nobody else see him right now, just on the other side of an anxiety attack. So, he cringes and slides his bare feet into his shoes, finds his keys, his phone, and hovers over the shopping bag, desperate for anything that might clear him of this god-awful hangover and the fast approaching anxiety attack. If it hasn’t already started.

_There’s no shame in needing help. —Kita_

Kiyoomi doesn’t go snooping on purpose. He just wants the tea and the aspirin, but he stares at the note and the nicotine gum longer than he should and he needs to stop because he needs to be doing only what will make him feel better.

Kita’s note decidedly does not.

Nothing in Atsumu’s room does. It just feels like standing too high up on a narrow, narrow point, his light-headedness ready to send him over the edge at any moment.

He bolts.

The trip across campus is a blur. He feels like a shadow in Atsumu’s clothes, yet with a beacon lit up from within, reminding him this is what the Walk of Shame looks like. It’s probably what it feels like, too.

But eight o’clock classes have already started and there aren’t many students cluttering the sidewalks.

And then Kiyoomi’s in the safety of his car, filling it with smoke and germs that cling to him from overnight, and he leaves campus like shedding a layer of skin.

No, he wishes it felt more like that.

He wishes he were a snake. He could squeeze himself through this tightness in his chest all the way up through his throat and shed layer after layer of skin until he feels like himself again.

“ _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ ,” he mutters as he closes the door to his apartment behind him. He’s only had room in his head for that one word to bounce around, and now that he hears himself say it, he can’t be sure that it hasn’t been escaping his lips ever since he left Atsumu’s.

Last night’s clothes go into the hamper in his room. He’ll sort through them later. Wash them properly. Atsumu’s clothes are also yanked off and tossed—he stops himself from throwing them onto his bed. He’s going to scream if there’s one more thing he has to clean because of last night. Standing half naked in the middle of his room, white hot static starts crowding his ears, filling his lungs, before he decides to sling them over the edge of the hamper. They’ll need to be washed before he returns them, and they can’t go anywhere else. Not after he’s already worn them.

Then, he jumps into the shower before it has a chance to heat up just so the water’s white noise blocks the static from settling back in.

The pattering of the shower keeps his head clear, but every nerve ending has been turned to one setting and no amount of soap will convince them otherwise.

The soap kills the germs. He’s clean.

His body doesn’t agree.

He scratches shampoo into his hair until he is positive he’s damaged his hair beyond repair—stripping off the oils with wash after wash—until he has scratched his scalp raw and it tingles under the hot water.

The temperature turns his skin an angry red, but the best way to kill viruses and bacteria and parasites with water is by boiling.

When he eventually steps out, his bathroom is choked with steam and his skin is pruned and still red and there’s one spot on his neck that he hasn’t been able to stop scratching at since he got back. The marks are slightly raised and puffy, but the skin isn’t broken.

He sits in the middle of his bathroom, water pooling around him, towel draped over his head though he doesn’t recall grabbing it.

His scalp is still tender, and it still feels like there’s a rock on his chest, a hand around his throat, like he can’t suck in enough air without coughing or sobbing or choking, and he doesn’t want to make any of those sounds because then he might not be able to stop. He just wants to breathe. His other hand scratches at his forearm.

Kiyoomi knows this response. He can break it down even as it’s happening. It’s not so much a cycle as it is a spiral plummeting ever downward. First, the trigger. For him, it’s the physical manifestation of something that sets off his mysophobia, an internal fuse. It can be as simple as a smudge of dirt on his cheek. Then, the panic. The closing in of the world to that one spot. His senses dulled until they can only take in and decipher what is connected to the trigger. Shutdown. This doesn’t look like him shutting down, but if he can’t pull himself out of the panic quick enough, then there’s only the cleaning and cleaning and cleaning, his mind unable to get rid of the breach to his bubble, and the repetition putting him deeper and deeper into his breakdown. Into his own head.

There has always been the scratching. The raking of his nails over his skin until it reddened, swelled, and broke. At first, it was an alternative to the cleaning. It was a dog chewing off its own foot jammed in a trap. If the flesh was dirtied, get rid of it. That, or be consumed altogether and drown.

Kiyoomi had grown out of that mindset before he entered middle school, but the pain response stuck.

When bombarded with ugly onslaughts to his senses and a mind that wanted to swallow itself up in response to that, what other option did he have to drag himself back to the surface besides another physical onslaught? One he could control. Something that could pop the suffocating bubble expanding within his chest.

A shedding of skin.

Yesterday’s smoke, yesterday’s grime—they aren’t permanent. Neither are the red lines along his forearms and up his biceps, highlighted from the hot water. Those will be gone within minutes. Some by tonight. By tomorrow, a few places will be scabbed over, and even those will vanish by next week.

And his anxiety attack will be over, and he will feel cleaner, and when he has the energy, he will stand up and clean his room, put a load of laundry in, and collapse and take a nap.

* * *

"Alright, so, you've probably seen the pictures, but I figured I'd ask ya first before I went and took 'em down." Atsumu calls just before midnight because, like everything else, he doesn't seem capable of doing one thing like a normal person. "And I kinda like 'em. So..."

Kiyoomi is in his second pair of pajamas since returning to his apartment and is on the other side of three showers now. His skin is dry all over—tender along his arms, neck, head—but he's freshly moisturized and feeling better. Exhausted, but he hasn't spoken to anyone else all day, not even Komori, so he has enough battery life left to handle this one call with Atsumu.

"I haven't been on social media today," he says, though he's hardly on it any other day.

"Then what're ya still talkin' to me for? Go look so you can gimme yer okay to keep up the evidence of our drunken hookup."

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes as he pulls his laptop from his desk and into his bed. "It wasn't a hookup, Miya."

"People can think what they want."

" _People_ ," Kiyoomi huffs something like a laugh. "Not you."

Atsumu cackles on the other end while Kiyoomi searches for Atsumu's Facebook page. The newest post is from last night around two in the morning, an album named _Z_. That's it. It's got thirty-six pictures added to it as well as a bunch of likes and comments that Kiyoomi's not in the mood to go through right now.

Most of the pictures are lost causes, blurry ones of the fire, streaks of muted color across black from a moving camera. There's a selfie of Atsumu and Osamu. It's streaked with motion and blotchy from bad lighting, but it's clear enough. Both scowl in an almost practiced pose. Atsumu flips off the camera, Osamu tilts his head back, looking down his nose. It's the most Kiyoomi has seen them get along at a party.

There's a picture of Kita, who's not paying attention, a picture of Suna taking a picture of Osamu, a shot of them holding hands. A picture of nothing.

Then, Kiyoomi sees his own face in the mix of blurred mementos. The first one, Atsumu is leaning back against him. He appears almost a head shorter than him from the angle. Atsumu’s face is flushed and he has his lips pressed against his fingers formed into a peace sign. Kiyoomi is looking down at him, brows slightly drawn, lips pursed. Atsumu has the brunt of the firelight shining on him, so the most that stands out about Kiyoomi is his jacket and the way the light bounces off it and reflects like glitter against the tips of Atsumu’s bleached hair.

"I musta posted 'em after the party," Atsumu says after Kiyoomi hasn't said anything. "And they ended up in an _album_ —" he laughs "—I don't even know how to make an album when I'm sober."

Yes, it's clearly the work of a blacked out Atsumu. Even before needing Kiyoomi’s approval to post online about them, Atsumu has always been more selective in what pictures he posts, Kiyoomi thinks as he clicks through selfie after selfie, all obviously taken after Atsumu’s smoke break and downing who knows how many malts. 

There are group selfies, Kiyoomi included—Atsumu's phone jostled around from one hand to the next because then there's a picture where Atsumu has both arms around Kiyoomi's neck, mouth stretch wide in a laugh even as they're crammed in the back corner of the photo, Osamu hogging most of the bottom frame with Suna giving him rabbit ears. And there's more like that, after Atsumu lost autonomy over his phone and the pictures taken on it, culprits ranging from Osamu to Kita to nearly every one of his friends besides Atsumu. In every selfie, every picture, no matter who's taking the picture, Atsumu is somewhere in frame, his hands on Kiyoomi, and if Kiyoomi is cropped out, then there is always a flash of his glittering gold jacket somewhere and always under Atsumu's hands.

Kiyoomi stops at the last picture. On one side is Osamu and Suna, the sides of their heads gently touching. Osamu stares at the camera, only a slight smirk on his lips, but Suna looks at Osamu, his lips pressed together as he tries not to laugh, eyes squinted nearly shut. The other half of the picture is what draws Kiyoomi’s attention. It’s him and Atsumu. He has both arms wrapped around Atsumu’s waste, seemingly leaning into him, chin just on the edge of his shoulder. With eyes aimed past the camera, he looks tired. Tired enough to agree to go back to Atsumu’s dorm and pass out in his bed. Atsumu appears wide awake in the picture, his eyes nearly glinting as they look at the camera, his lips just barely parted and pressed to Kiyoomi’s cheek.

Kiyoomi fights the urge to rub at the spot, despite the fact he’s alone in bed and the four showers that have long washed the kiss away.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you, Miya,” he says. “If I knew it was your first kiss, I wouldn’t have done it that way.”

Atsumu barks out a laugh. “What, you mean when I was drunk? I don’t care, Omi-Omi.”

“You sounded like you did this morning.”

“Yeah, I had a very bad hangover and my fake boyfriend was having a conniption at wakin’ up in my bed,” Atsumu says. “Doesn’t inspire much confidence, does it.”

Kiyoomi scowls, a surplus of other emotions fighting for authority on his face. “That wasn’t it.”

“I know,” Atsumu replies, and his voice has softened, pulling back from whatever taunt he was working up to. “So, I’m guessin’ that wasn’t yer first kiss then, seein’ how indifferent ya are about the whole thing.”

“It wasn’t,” Kiyoomi said. “And aren’t I supposed to be indifferent?”

But Atsumu’s groaning over his question, so it goes unheard. “I can’t believe the germaphobe had his first kiss before _me_.”

“You’re the one who asked.”

“All I’m sayin’ is,” Atsumu starts in overtop of Kiyoomi, “I wouldn’t mind if it happened again.”

Kiyoomi hesitates “I’ll think about it. Maybe try improving your drunken slobbering first and then you can ask me again.”

“ _Hey_!”

“And you can keep the pictures up.” Kiyoomi shuts his laptop before Atsumu’s smoldering look burns holes through the screen and through his chest. “There’s nothing too incriminating in there other than you trying to show off.”

“What can I say? The camera loves me.”

“And don’t forget to send me today’s notes.”

Atsumu’s clicks his tongue at him. “Already emailed ‘em to ya, Omi.” He pauses, and Kiyoomi lets the silence build because he knows Atsumu isn’t finished, though he wishes he could just hang up. He doesn’t. “So, about this morning.”

“You should have let me call an Uber,” Kiyoomi says as dispassionate as he can muster. “And that’s all I’ll say on that.”

Atsumu still falters. As usual, it’s at the strangest points in conversations when his bravado fizzles out, and Kiyoomi almost finds himself growing impatient, wishing Atsumu would just plough on ahead like he always does.

“Ya don’t gotta talk about it. That’s not what…”

Kiyoomi imagines Atsumu chewing on his bottom lip. He thinks about the picture of Atsumu kissing his cheek, those eyes intense as they stare back at the camera, as if he knew he’d be staring right at the moment Kiyoomi would be looking back on it. And Kiyoomi wonders what it would have looked like if someone had captured the moment he first kissed Atsumu.

“Was just wonderin’ if yer alright,” Atsumu continues. “I guess.”

Kiyoomi runs the tips of his fingers up his arm that holds the phone, tracing over the faded scratches from earlier. It won’t happen again. The scratching, the anxiety attacks. He’ll be prepared next time. And he won’t get caught up in a moment with Atsumu that can’t even be considered a _moment_. There’s always some way to put up a barrier—against the germs, against other people—and it’ll work with Atsumu just the same.

“I’m fine, Miya.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the kind comments and kudos. They especially got me through writing this heavier chapter.
> 
> Have a great week, everyone!
> 
> Edit: [Some amazing art](https://m-art-i.tumblr.com/post/636606669462421504/selfie-king-suna-back-at-it-again-at-krispy-kreme) was drawn for the sakuatsu/sunaosa picture at the end by [marti](https://m-art-i.tumblr.com/)! Check it out!
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://silentmarco.tumblr.com)


	8. I still have yet to learn that every little bit helps the fire burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I also mention it in the end notes, but check out this lovely art drawn by [marti](https://m-art-i.tumblr.com/) of scenes from the last couple chapters! ([Sakusa from Chapter 3](https://m-art-i.tumblr.com/post/636514813252632576/pov-youre-walking-through-campus-in-sweatpants), [Atsumu from Chapter 6](https://m-art-i.tumblr.com/post/636515196276473856/atsumu-spreads-his-arms-wide-and-from-this), and [the sakuatsu/sunosa photo from Chapter 7](https://m-art-i.tumblr.com/post/636606669462421504/selfie-king-suna-back-at-it-again-at-krispy-kreme))

Dating Atsumu develops into a certain routine that is completely unexpected for Kiyoomi. Somehow, there’s a repetitiveness to it that he never thought possible. It’s comforting. If there’s one aspect of his life that would drag him out of his routine, Kiyoomi had been certain it’d be Atsumu. And for a short while, it is. But then the dust settles, and it becomes a kind of solid ground for him to stand on, much to his surprise.

Kiyoomi gets him his Pink Drink Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays before philosophy. Atsumu texts him—mostly to complain about Osamu and then about Osamu and Suna—but then he texts about weekend plans, and Kiyoomi always says yes.

There’s an order to life. Everything is a process. Atsumu gets his permission before posting something online. Kiyoomi waits outside his dorm whenever they go to parties on campus. When they get there—whatever frat house, cramped dorm room party Atsumu has sniffed out with his friends—Kiyoomi takes a shot and makes out with Atsumu, crowding him into the first corner he finds. It’s out of the way but still in plain sight of anyone who bothers to look. Then, he spends the rest of the night sobering up, staying by Atsumu’s side as he continues to drink, and walks him back after the party has wrapped up.

Kiyoomi doesn’t stay the night again. There’s an order to it now, and no matter the late hour, he always falls asleep in the safety of his own bed. It’s because he doesn’t get drunk again like at the bonfire, and because he now has Atsumu to keep him distracted. Kissing Atsumu, to be more precise.

He can’t say for sure if it’s a good or bad kind of distraction, but with at least one drink in his system, he’s not going to fall apart again.

But routines are dangerous. They’re comfortable—reassuring even—and if he’s not careful, Kiyoomi could end up caught in one forever. The semester had started to slow after midterms as Kiyoomi got used to Atsumu’s new presence in his life, picked up pace gradually. And then the bonfire happened and everything came screeching to a halt the morning after. Now that Kiyoomi has re-secured his boundaries, the routine of orbiting Atsumu is expected, and November passes. The end of the semester is near, and Kiyoomi is starting to think that disrupting this new routine would be more painful that keeping up the act.

Like he said, routines are dangerous.

And besides him, there’s only one other person that knows this fact just as well.

“I thought this was supposed to convince you to hate him,” Komori says in the doorway to his room one Sunday after they’ve finished up with laundry.

He’s been hovering over the topic all day, all week even. Kiyoomi has noticed the lingering concern in his stares. The opened mouth that shuts when Kiyoomi looks at him. And especially the raised brows when he catches his eye at a party they’re both at.

“And isn’t all this kissing, you know, a bad idea?” Komori continues. “Besides, I thought you hated kissing.”

“I’m not worried about getting attached. He’s always drunk, so it’s not like kissing him is all that enticing anyway.”

Kissing Atsumu has become tolerable, at least compared to the first time. If Kiyoomi hadn’t been drunk, he wouldn’t have been able to stand it. But he’s noticed that Atsumu doesn’t smoke when he’s at parties inside. In fact, if Kiyoomi had to guess, Atsumu’s been better at not smoking in general. When they kiss, his lips and tongue taste like cheap alcohol, usually strawberries, and he’s been smelling less and less of smoke.

Komori doesn’t look totally convinced. “I know you said if anyone were to get hurt, it’d be him, but at this point, I think that might actually be the case.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes and retreats to his room. “Miya Atsumu doesn’t know what he wants,” he says over his shoulder. “He’s just doing this to hurt as many people as he can.”

He thinks back to what Kita had told him, and he promises himself that if Atsumu is intent on destruction, then Kiyoomi will be sure to keep his own heart away from any explosions. Komori doesn’t have to worry.

* * *

With the end of November in sight, class work is gradually picking up pace as finals approach. Also in sight is the looming number of philosophy readings Atsumu has skipped, now that he’s been otherwise occupied with his newly bumped up social life. In fact, it’s one of his readings on Aristotle that he currently has his cheek pressed against as he snoozes late Saturday night.

But then something soft hits the back of his head and he wakes with a snort. The book’s page is nearly torn out from the way it sticks to his cheek when he sits up suddenly.

Osamu stands by his bed, laundry basket in front of him as he folds clothes from the laundry he’s just done as it nears midnight. It’s not surprising since he always leaves his weekend laundry to the last minute when he realizes he has too much homework needing done on Sunday. Plus, there’s not too many of the other guys in their hall hogging the machines at this hour.

Atsumu finds a balled-up pair of socks lying in the middle of the room, and he turns his glare on Osamu who glares back.

"It's been a while since we hung out," Osamu says after a second, his expression softening.

“Yer kiddin’ right?” Atsumu wipes dried drool from the corner of his mouth. "Ya don't even play video games with me on Sunday anymore."

"Yeah? And who's the one always too hungover to play?" Osamu puts one hand on his hip, and Atsumu rolls his eyes and smirks.

"Yer not even here to be sure'a that," he says. "Couple weeks ago, ya started sleepin' over at Sunarin's. Are we not gonna talk about that?"

Now, Osamu is turned fully around, both hands on his hips. He's not glaring, but he's got a testy look on his face that tells Atsumu, if he presses the right buttons, he can egg him on enough for an argument if he really wants.

He’s too tired to fight, but he always like weighing his options.

"S'cuse you, I was _sexiled_ from my own room."

"You were _not_ sexiled." Atsumu scoffs at the idea of it. "Though I did plan on sleepin' in yer bed so Omi could have mine. I just—" he tries thinking back on the night, but he still doesn't remember too much of it, especially since it mixes in with every other drunken night he's spent out with Sakusa "—didn't make it that far, I guess."

Though Sakusa has not returned to his room. Atsumu supposes it's for the best. If it had become a habit, Sakusa might've really ended their arrangement for good.

"Not sure which woulda been worse," Osamu huffs. "Anyway, that's beside the point. Wanna hang out next week?"

Atsumu sits up straighter in his chair. So, Osamu hadn't just been trying to take a jab at him. Things had changed since they moved out, but it seemed like the deeper they got into the semester, the more time apart they spent. And the more it started to come so easily. Didn’t matter that they share the same room, just like they had at home.

"Nah, yer way too cool for me, 'Samu," Atsumu teases and leans back over his chair, cracking his spine and looking at Osamu upside-down. "We could do a Smash marathon or binge that show ya wanted to watch at midterms."

"Already watched it,” he says.

“Okay,” Atsumu drawls out, not letting the response get to him. “Kita’s place is big enough. We could convince him to throw something together.”

“I meant doin' something normal that’s not a party.” Osamu’s lips have the slightest downward turn with his disapproval. “Rin's free Friday. We could go out and eat and see a movie."

Atsumu scrunches his nose at the thought. _Rin_ —not just that but him, Osamu, _and Rin_. "Ew." He sits up. "I'm not third-wheelin' with you and Suna."

"I was suggestin' a double date." Osamu’s frown is more pronounced as it aims down at him. "Besides, the three of us used to go to the movies all the time."

"In _high school_ ," Atsumu says. "Before ya started _datin'_."

Osamu's frown turns into a scowl. "Just ask Sakusa." He bends down for the socks he'd thrown at Atsumu and puts them in one of his drawers.

Atsumu sticks his tongue out at his back when he turns to finish folding his laundry. He watches him finish putting everything away, too tired to get back to his philosophy reading. Aristotle is such a bore, no wonder it put him to sleep in the first place.

It’d be different if he had any actual graphic design courses this semester, but no, it’s all first semester, freshmen crap paired with gen eds like _philosophy_. He probably could’ve found a way more interesting class than Philosophy 101 to meet the requirement. Plus, he’s been too busy to touch Photoshop the past few months. He’s going to get rusty, but he’s been too busy being a college freshman, living independently for the first time.

Well, independent other than Osamu.

But there’s always going to be Osamu around.

"Rin and I ain't goin' out again until finals are over," Osamu says, causing Atsumu to blink and realize he'd been spacing out. His laundry basket is put away and he lingers by the door. "I figured this'd be a good idea for us all to still hang out."

Atsumu stands up and stretches his arms overhead. "Alright," he grunts. "I'll talk to Omi-kun, but rest assured, I'll still party enough for the both of us, ‘Samu."

Osamu rolls his eyes and opens the door. Atsumu drops his arms and the smirk.

"Where ya goin'?"

"Rin's room. We've got a crazy final to study for."

Atsumu scowls. "'Course ya do."

Osamu shrugs unconcerned. "G'night."

"Night," Atsumu groans, but it's covered up by the sound of the door already clicking shut. He throws himself onto his bed and wrestles his phone out of whatever pocket he'd shoved it into.

It’s late, but Sakusa always seems to answer no matter what time it is.

“What.”

Atsumu bites down on his tongue as it pokes out. “Ya know, if ya really didn’t wanna talk to me, ya coulda just let it ring.”

“You’re annoying when you don’t get your way,” Sakusa says. “What do you want?”

“So.” Atsumu clicks his tongue a couple times against the roof of his mouth. “‘Samu and Sunarin want us to do a double date Friday night.”

“That sounds tacky and not something you’d be into,” Sakusa says. “Besides, I thought your brother doing anything with Suna in your proximity pissed you off.”

“This ain’t about that,” Atsumu says too quickly and then takes a breath. “This is me gettin’ the chance to piss _him_ off by his proximity to _us_.”

Sakusa sighs and waits a second before asking, “What do they want to do?”

Atsumu grins. “We’re goin’ out for dinner and a movie.”

There’s another pause over the line, but Atsumu thinks nothing of it until Sakusa’s voice cleanly says, “No.”

“’m sorry. What’s that?” Atsumu says. “Yer turnin’ down a date with yer fake boyfriend, ya know, when we’re s’posed to be convincin’ people like ‘Samu?”

“Yeah,” Sakusa says, his voice crisp and cutting. “You said I get to draw the line when I need to, and this is a line for me. I don’t do public movie theaters and I refrain from eating out as much as possible.”

“You didn’t have a line when you kissed me.” Atsumu’s stomach drops the second the words leave his lips. “Ya know. The time I was smokin’. The first time.”

“You’re right, and my mouth regretted that decision the next morning,” Sakusa bites back. “I was drunk, Atsumu. So were you.”

Atsumu scoffs. “So you do sloppy frat houses but not movie theaters.”

“Can we not dissect this? My final answer is no. Call me if you want to get drunk and make out at a party. That’s apparently what we’re best at.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Atsumu snaps, but the line has already gone dead.

The thing is, Atsumu hates movie theaters, too. He hates movies in general. They’re too long, and he always gets antsy about a third of the way in. If he’s lucky, he falls asleep. If he’s not, his leg starts bouncing and he starts muttering criticisms at the characters and their poor decisions, annoying everyone in his vicinity.

It’s not his fault that played-up drama makes him cringe, or the car chases drag on for too long, or that everything’s a sequel to something else. The dialogue gets so sappy that it skyrockets the film out of any orbit of belief. Everything has a happy ending, but if it doesn’t, it’s torture porn or the writer trying to be fake deep about the supposed tragedy of real life.

To be fair, real life _is_ a tragedy, but if his life were a movie, he’d spend half of it on every inside joke he and Osamu have ever told and the other half of it kissing Sakusa, because that’s the most fun he’s had all month.

It’s been a long month.

Osamu was right though when he said how he, Atsumu, and Suna used to go to the movies all the time back in high school. Back then, it was fun. Back then, they did it to be ironic. They went to the cheap theater in town—the one that used to be the main theater before some big fancy brand built a new one. So, when movies didn’t do well, they ended up at the old theater. The seat cushions were flattened from age. There were rats somewhere in the ceiling. It still had arcade games in the lobby, but there was a fifty-fifty chance of the machine eating your money. Maybe seventy-thirty.

The popcorn wasn’t as expensive as the newer theater’s, but that’s because the staff kept it in there a couple days at a time so they wouldn’t have to throw out as much out with their limited number of patrons, the three of them guessed.

So, they’d meet up on Saturdays—sometimes with a combination of Aran, Kita, or Gin depending on the week—but it was always at least the three of them. They’d pick the worst rated movie, buy a bunch of popcorn, and spend the afternoon with a theater to themselves, shouting at the big screen and throwing popcorn.

Sometimes they’d hide in the bathrooms and find a second movie showing after their first. They never stayed longer than the first thirty minutes before they grew bored and went home to play video games as late as they could get away with.

Atsumu had liked _those_ movie outings, and even when he had heard Osamu’s offer, he had at least thought he could kill time with Sakusa for two and a half hours. He could rub their relationship in Osamu’s and Suna’s faces, and then make out for the rest of it. Because kissing was _fun_ , he was gradually learning. It was something new to do at parties, and the fact that he could get Sakusa of all people to kiss him made Atsumu feel like he’d conquered something.

But _no_ , Sakusa had to be all germaphobe about the weirdest things. Not that he’d kissed Atsumu yet without being assuredly buzzed at the start, but that was besides the point. And now Atsumu is sitting alone on his side of the table, across from Osamu and Suna, who looks as though he’s been one breath from cracking up ever since they sat down.

“You didn’t have to come if you were just going to pout the whole time,” Suna says, and Atsumu rolls his eyes. His arms are defiantly crossed over his chest.

“’Samu was the one who guilted me into it. Said it’d be like old times.”

“Aww,” Suna remarks snidely and turns to face Osamu. “How _cute_.”

Atsumu feels himself cringing with secondhand embarrassment even though neither of the other two has any shame over being too cute and couple-like. In fact, Osamu laughs. Atsumu wants to shield his eyes, to pretend he’s not with them, but there’s nowhere else to go, and no fake boyfriend to cling onto either. At least if Sakusa were here, he could deflect all this awkwardness onto him with a joke instead. Sakusa would react indifferently, but then Atsumu would still feel better.

He sinks lower into his chair. “This is _not_ like old times.”

“And guess what.” Suna leans one elbow on the table and smirks. “I’m holding Osamu’s hand. Right now. Under the table.”

“Oh my god, Rin. He’s gonna combust.” Osamu laughs.

Atsumu groans, refraining from hiding his face in his hands. Refraining from pulling out his phone and texting Sakusa that this is all his fault. Because it definitely is.

“Anyway,” Osamu continues, “been meanin’ to tell you, Rin’s stayin’ with us over winter break. Already talked to Ma about it.”

“Ew, why?”

Suna shrugs. “Parents decided to go to some onsen for the holidays. No kids allowed.”

“What about your sister?” Atsumu asks.

“She’s staying with our grandparents. I voted to stay in town after ‘Samu offered.”

“Thanks for the heads up,” Atsumu says flatly. “Now I can dread the break even more.”

Osamu kicks him lightly under the table. “No, dummy. I’m tellin’ ya because Ma’s probably gonna ask ya to invite Sakusa.”

“Great, I knew she’d go crazy after we moved out.”

Osamu kicks him harder. “You should call her anyway. She keeps leavin’ me voicemails about posting embarrassin’ pictures with my boyfriend when I’m drunk,” Osamu says. “And I know the only one doin’ that is you.”

“She does that to you, too?” is out of his mouth before he can fully take in what Osamu said, and he flushes but refuses to comment on it.

“Just the one time. After ya got wasted at Kita’s bonfire party.” Osamu raises his brows expectantly, but Atsumu doesn’t know what more he could possibly want to go over about that night.

“I mean, she doesn’t do it all the time, but she’s definitely called me tryin’ to reach you about yer grades.”

Suna snickers into his hand. “Good thing you only have to last until the end of the semester.”

“Huh?” The sound is barely audible from the back of Atsumu’s throat.

“It’s not like the engineerin’ classes will transfer anyway,” Osamu says, and he has this bittersweet kind of smile on his face, and Atsumu is glancing between him and Suna like he’s missing a piece.

“Still,” Suna says, “that’s a lot of money flushed down the toilet.”

Osamu’s eyebrow twitches. “Don’t remind me,” he warns despite the smile still there. It sounds like a repeated conversation.

And they’re looking at each other like Atsumu isn’t even there. Atsumu feels like flipping the table, but before he gets the chance, their food arrives.

“What the hell are you two talkin’ about?” he seethes through his teeth after the waitress leaves, and Osamu looks at him almost like he’s bored. Atsumu hates that.

“I’m droppin’ out.”

He says it with that straight face, and Atsumu’s heart stops. The only thing keeping him in his seat and not across the table hauling Osamu up by his shirt collar is Suna’s huff of laughter.

“Osamu,” he says, and Osamu’s face turns apologetic. Atsumu can’t help staring, not only because of what his brother is saying, but because of how he’s acting, too. Has Atsumu not been watching him and Suna so closely before? The way they talk and react off of each other. The sideways glances and knowing looks that’s all so foreign to Atsumu. Just months ago, _he_ was the only one able to decipher Osamu down to his slightest change in expression.

Atsumu doesn’t understand what Osamu is saying and he certainly doesn’t understand anything that’s happening on his face.

“I’m not droppin’ out, okay?” Osamu says, and it’s the slower tone he uses when he knows Atsumu’s upset. The recognition of the familiar tick should relieve him, but it only makes him angrier. He hasn’t even done anything yet. “But I am tranferrin’ schools. I’m takin’ next semester off to help Ma out and then startin’ back up in the fall.”

Atsumu opens his mouth, then closes it. His tongue is so dry, it sticks to the roof of his mouth. “Ya already talked to Ma?”

Osamu blinks up at him. Atsumu doesn’t know when he stood up. “Yeah.”

“And yer just tellin’ me,” Atsumu says. “Right now.”

“Yeah. I was waitin’ until I knew for sure.” Osamu shrugs one shoulder. “Ya get stressed over this kinda stuff.”

Atsumu plops back into his seat, stabs blindly at his plate, and shoves the fork into his mouth. He’s not hungry, and the food has the warm and tasteless texture of subpar chain restaurant food. He’s itching to hit something—probably Osamu—but even he knows better than to start a brawl in a place like this.

Before he feels he’s made up his mind, his fork clatters to his plate and he’s on his feet again. Osamu and Suna haven’t eaten yet. They haven’t moved.

“You two lovebirds can take the check,” he says, his words clipped as he throws his napkin onto the table. “Enjoy the movie. _Exactly like old times, ‘Samu_.”

Osamu half stands as Atsumu steps away from his chair, but Atsumu walks past him before he can do anything else. He has the Stinger’s keys in his pocket and feels no regret walking out of the restaurant. He waits a minute outside to pace back and forth on the sidewalk. It’s already dark out, and he catches his breath on the cold air, waiting to see if Osamu will follow him out.

Atsumu isn’t sure if he wants him to because he’s not sure if he just wants to have the space to talk out here, where he can raise his voice without drawing looks, without Suna judging him, or if he wants to knock Osamu to the ground and shout and stomp his feet like when they were kids. Or maybe he doesn’t want Osamu to come outside. Maybe the sight of him will make Atsumu angrier than he wants to deal with at the moment.

But the restaurant doors remain closed, and Osamu doesn’t suddenly appear. At least, not within the timeframe Atsumu gives him, which to be fair, he’s not entirely sure how long he waits.

Then, he storms off to the back parking lot for their car and, with tires squealing on the pavement, he leaves. Osamu and Suna can call an Uber for all he cares.

Osamu wants to leave? _Fine_. Atsumu’s going to get drunk and make out with his hot, fake boyfriend, who tolerates him at a bare minimum and will cut back on the talking. He’ll take a shot just so he can deal with the party and all the people around them. Just to deal with kissing Atsumu back. But that’s fine, too.

The silence of the dorm room seems to be taunting him when he closes the door behind him. He doesn’t allow himself to dwell on the thought that, if Osamu isn’t just trying to mess with him, this is what it would be without him.

He pulls out his phone and finds Sakusa’s contact and hits call. Atsumu’s positive there’s some kind of party happening somewhere on campus. He can text around. Gin or Aran might know of something. He just needs to get Sakusa on board.

But first, his throat is itching for a smoke.

He’s been doing so well, too. Other than the gum, he doesn’t think he’s had a single smoke since November started. Maybe one or two at a party, but he can forgive those. It’s easy to forgive what he can’t remember.

Right now, though, while he waits for Sakusa to pick up, he needs something. He needs a cigarette. He needs a drink. He needs to drive fast.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at a movie?”

Atsumu nearly topples his desk lamp and curses under his breath. The pack isn’t there either, and he can’t think of the last place he had them.

“Where are my _fucking_ cigarettes?”

There’s a pause as Sakusa catches up, but Atsumu doesn’t have the patience for that and stomps over to his bed to look somewhere else.

“As if I would know,” Sakusa huffs lowly, waits another second, then adds, “You flushed them down the toilet last weekend.”

Atsumu straightens. “ _What_.”

Sakusa sighs long and low. “You were drunk, and you were having a _moment_.”

Atsumu imagines himself standing victoriously over a toilet in a cramped bathroom, a soggy pack of Marlboros spinning around the draining bowl, and the rest of the party cheering loudly leaning in from the hallway. He has a fist raised, victorious for some reason—a high and mighty feeling that’s only produced by some level of intoxication. Sakusa’s beside him, rolling his eyes, but Atsumu pictures him with a smile on his lips.

Very skeptical of this imagined scene, Atsumu shakes his head and writes it off as a stupid mess his drunk self has gifted his sober, present self a week later.

“Whatever. I’ll buy more,” he mutters. “C’mon. I’m findin’ the closest party and we’re gonna get drunk.”

“No.”

The world that had gradually been spinning faster and faster around him, slams to a halt, and Atsumu pauses his manic pacing in the middle of the room, regains his balance.

“I’m in for the night.” Sakusa sighs again. “I have finals to study for. Plus, angry and drunk doesn’t sound very fun, so I’ll pass.”

“ _Omi_ ,” Atsumu growls. “I’m goin’ out and I need a date.”

“What happened to the movie?”

“Too much sittin’ around,” Atsumu snaps, sick of having to lie but not wanting to talk about it. “I need to _do_ something.”

The phone is quiet, and the silence of the room crowds back in on him. Atsumu checks to make sure Sakusa hasn’t hung up on him. He’s mildly surprised when he finds he hasn’t.

“Why don’t you come over here then,” Sakusa finally says. “I’m reading through philosophy notes tonight.”

Atsumu groans over his words. Studying is the last thing he wants to do.

“Come over and study with me,” Sakusa continues, his voice sounding like he doesn’t care either way, but he wouldn’t offer twice if he didn’t mean it. “We can go out and do whatever you want tomorrow night.”

Atsumu still clutches the keys to the Stinger in his hand, hard enough to leave an imprint on his palm. His hair stands on ends from the way he keeps carding his fingers through it and his veins feel like live wires, making his skin feel like a hazard.

He can’t stay in this room alone, and he won’t be here for when Osamu comes back— _if_ he comes back—and doesn’t just go straight to Suna’s room.

So, when Sakusa says his name one last time, like a door closing, Atsumu goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the boost of love this fic has gotten the past week! Also, check out this lovely art drawn by [marti](https://m-art-i.tumblr.com/) of scenes from the last couple chapters! ([Sakusa from Chapter 3](https://m-art-i.tumblr.com/post/636514813252632576/pov-youre-walking-through-campus-in-sweatpants), [Atsumu from Chapter 6](https://m-art-i.tumblr.com/post/636515196276473856/atsumu-spreads-his-arms-wide-and-from-this), and [the sakuatsu/sunosa photo from Chapter 7](https://m-art-i.tumblr.com/post/636606669462421504/selfie-king-suna-back-at-it-again-at-krispy-kreme)) Go check out their wonderful art!
> 
> And I really appreciate you being patient for this update. I had to shift my focus to a personal project last week, which delayed starting this chapter. Can't wait to get further into this!
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://silentmarco.tumblr.com)


	9. And when I first met you, there was a garden growing from a black hole in my mind

With two older siblings both ten and twelve years older than him, it didn’t take Kiyoomi all that long to figure out his existence hadn’t exactly been planned for. It wasn’t that his parents didn’t love him—they were busy people, equally distanced from his siblings as well—but Kiyoomi was a bright kid. He could put two and two together. Their family already had the perfect dynamic before his addition. Two quiet, studious kids, close in age, both all but guaranteed success in their futures. Two happily married parents, and with children who could just about take care of themselves. Kiyoomi’s parents had always been career-oriented, but now they had the freedom to do just that.

And then came Kiyoomi. Nobody said anything, but they didn’t have to. Nobody carefully built such a perfect family unit and then, a decade later, suddenly decide to chance adding to it.

Despite Kiyoomi’s best efforts to model himself after his older brother and sister, he was never going to be perfect. He knew that perfection was unreachable better than anyone, but his existence alone was an unspoken smudge. The mysophobia he developed six years later, another. They were the invisible dirt left on his hands and under his nails after the fifth time washing his hands.

Those were two faults. Unchangeable, but faults nonetheless.

His parents weren’t disappointed. That went against their nature of withholding any and all embarrassing displays such as emotions. They simply gritted their teeth and dealt with it. Over the years, Kiyoomi tucked his chin and learned to do the same.

He discovered one other unchangeable fault his last year of high school. A realization that, despite his thoughts on dating, he had developed his first crush. And it was a guy. He liked guys.

His parents pretended not to care, but it couldn’t be helped. This wasn’t planned, and though there were no consequences to be seen, to Kiyoomi, it was still strike three.

Atsumu makes it to Kiyoomi’s apartment in record time. He leaves his finger on the buzzer all while Kiyoomi gets up from his desk and walks to the door. He’s expecting it from Atsumu’s text letting him know he’s here, but actually having him here is different. Komori is out at some club meeting, so Kiyoomi doesn’t have to tiptoe around the fact that he’s the first one to break the no visitors allowed rule. It’s his rule, but he still treads softly.

Sleeve tucked over his thumb, Kiyoomi presses the call button, thankfully cutting off the grating sound of Atsumu’s impatience.

“Door’s open,” he says and removes his thumb.

He’s expecting some smartass reply—or maybe something sharp considering how their recent phone conversation went—but there’s nothing, and Kiyoomi can only assume Atsumu is on his way upstairs.

Kiyoomi steps away from the door and into the middle of the room, what he deems an appropriate distance to wait.

He tries looking at the place like it's his first time. Atsumu's tiny room had been so full of personality, but considering it had both twins crammed inside, it made sense that the room was bursting with the butting head nature of the two. There were posters on the walls, stacks of videogames next to the television and consoles to match. There were snacks stored in plain sight. Clothes weren’t strewn around messily like expected, but coats hung over the back of chairs and backpacks laid open next to desks with notes spilling out. Every inch of the room was obviously lived in.

The apartment he shares with Komori is almost bare, so he supposes it does its job of revealing his personality. The posters on the walls in the living room are Komori's of movies and sports. He has more to match in his room. There's an armchair that Komori brought as well. He said he found it, and for all Kiyoomi knows, that means he picked it up off a curb, so Kiyoomi decided straight away that he wouldn't go near the thing. The couch is new, a present from his parents, and the rug was found at a discount store. The living room flows right into the kitchen, where everything is clean and put away, almost like it’s not used at all.

Kiyoomi wants to call it minimalist, but if he had more funds, he's not sure where to even start. He doesn't stray much from his room to begin with, so the emptiness is almost as unsettling as it was when they first moved in. The white walls had been bare then, the wood flooring seemed to stretch forever with no furniture to interrupt. Komori's room was empty since he arrived later in the day. Kiyoomi's parents had helped get the couch set, but that was about it. The drive back to Tokyo is a long one.

So, Kiyoomi's father lifted his hand, reached out, hesitated, and let it drop. Anyone looking in would call it an awkward fatherly gesture, but it had happened enough times for Kiyoomi to know it wasn't accidental. Just his father's way of filling the space. Of showing what he would normally do with any of Kiyoomi's siblings, but showing that he was holding back for Kiyoomi's sake.

On the other hand, his mother has never been as passive with her intent. It has always been her belief that Kiyoomi's issues require a heavier hand, and since she's his mother, that this was okay because she deemed it to be. So, she patted him on the head.

And then they were gone.

The silence that followed was as deafening as the feeling of his curls flattened lower on his forehead was suffocating.

He was on his third shower by the time Komori arrived with his parents, but he felt no cleaner. It wasn't so much that his mother had touched him against his previously stated wishes, it was that she had done it before the apartment was even close to being ready to live in. Before he could clean the shower with a sound mind. That he couldn't shower in his own bathroom back home in Tokyo, and that everywhere he looked was somewhere he didn't recognize and he couldn't trust any of it to be clean

Kiyoomi doesn't like the emptiness, but it's what the walls reflect back at him. It's what they say he is, but it's easier to sort through nothing than the everything, all at once thoughts that come with an anxiety attack.

Besides, as much as Atsumu's sudden intrusion interrupts his nightly routine, as much as it feels like nails on a chalkboard, it's always easier to sort through other people's messes.

And Atsumu is everything, all at once, all the time.

Kiyoomi flinches as the knocks come from his door. He sighs through his nose and braces himself for Atsumu. Then, he walks to the door and opens it.

Atsumu glowers in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. Kiyoomi might find his scowling and drawn eyebrows the tiniest bit intimidating if Atsumu weren't wearing such an oversized sweater. It's his usual black and it hangs low around his neck, revealing a white shirt, and long over his black skinny jeans. Kiyoomi wonders if Atsumu owns clothes of any other color.

"I don't see a backpack," Kiyoomi says and lets him in. "Or any notes. How exactly will you be studying?"

If possible, Atsumu's scowl darkens and he throws it back over his shoulder. "Not happenin’, Omi. If it wasn't for you, I'd be gettin' wasted by now and havin’ a much better time."

"Lucky me," Kiyoomi says flatly and shuts the door. He approaches his room as Atsumu lingers, leaning on his hands on the back of the couch. He still looks angry, but it’s paired with the subtle lost look anyone wears when entering someone else’s house for the first time. "Well, I'm studying. You and I both have a final in less than two weeks, and philosophy is not my major, so I've retained nothing."

Leaving his bedroom door open, Kiyoomi goes to sit down at his desk. He wasn’t lying when he told Atsumu over the phone that he’d been studying tonight. His notes are flipped open in front of him, a narrower notepad beside it with everything planned for their final listed on it, followed by a bulleted list breaking down each section. The course’s required texts aren’t too far away, color coded tags sticking out from between the pages, but he’s not going over quote memorization tonight.

After a minute, Atsumu appears in the doorway. He’s silent and twitchy, and it unnerves Kiyoomi. He wants him to be laughing and loud—like at the countless parties they’ve attended together—or the sleepy kind of quiet—like when he shows up for the eight a.m. class with seconds to spare. He’d even take his angry loud. The angry at his brother, angry at the world Atsumu who isn’t afraid of explosions. Isn’t afraid to be the cause of one.

This anger is defensive and simmering, and Kiyoomi doesn’t think he’s ever stuck around long enough to see it before.

“I’m going over Kant right now,” Kiyoomi tells him and finds his place in his notes again. “Not sure if we’ll have to deconstruct this, but understanding it still helps understand the reasoning behind his theories. What do you think? ‘Act in such a way that you treat—”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Atsumu seethes through his teeth. “Ya know what, this wasn’t a good idea after all.”

Kiyoomi’s eyebrows narrow at the quote in the middle of the page, written in his handwriting, boxed up to make it easier to find. Then, he looks up at Atsumu.

“Then what do you want to do instead,” Kiyoomi throws back at him. “Even though I think you owe it to me to study. The reason I’m so behind on readings is because you want to go out every weekend, every Thursday, every night you can possibly squeeze in. You always find something, Miya, and I have homework to catch up on.”

Kiyoomi highly doubts Atsumu is caught up any more than he is.

“You shoulda said no then,” Atsumu snaps.

“That defeats the whole point then, doesn’t it.” Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “In that case, I should’ve said no in the beginning.”

Atsumu opens his mouth, and his eye twitches before he huffs and turns on his heel and is out the door.

Kiyoomi sighs dramatically in return and hauls himself to his feet to go after him. Atsumu is already at the doorway, forcing his feet into his shoes until the backs bend underneath his heels. Kiyoomi leans against the hallway wall a safe distance away and watches him.

“Was your double date that insufferable without me?” he finally asks. It’s not the question he wants to ask— _What did your brother do this time?_ or _What did you do this time?_ maybe if he’s feeling vindictive—but Atsumu likes to weasel out of such straightforward assaults. And if Kiyoomi’s plain mean about it, Atsumu will lash back and leave even quicker.

“You wouldn’t have made it any better,” Atsumu says, scowling down at the second shoe he’s wrestling onto his foot. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“But you clearly still want to think about it,” Kiyoomi says coldly. “So, if you’re not going back to your dorm, where are you going, Miya?”

“Just—out.” Atsumu gestures roughly at the door and pulls his keys from his pocket, retreating. “’m goin’ for a drive. Is that a problem?” He turns his back and opens the door he’d just come through minutes ago. “Nobody’s around, Omi. Ya don’t gotta act all worried.”

Dumbfounded at the exchange, Kiyoomi stares at the door for a second as it closes. After all the trouble of asking Atsumu over, disrupting his routine for him, Kiyoomi tries to connect the dots that his nightly plan—the new one that he had meticulously rearranged just so Atsumu could have a place in it—is changing once again.

He had been so forceful at shoving the silence aside, awaiting Atsumu’s _noise_ , that now the leftover emptiness feels jarring again.

Komori was right. This entire thing is full of one bad idea after another, but Kiyoomi can’t help the way he feels, which isn’t how Komori had meant. Kiyoomi cannot help the way his brain naturally moves him to seek what’s expected, what feels like stable ground beneath his feet. The structure of a solid routine and knowing what’s coming next.

It has never been his heart that he was worried about. So what if he likes Atsumu? If he sat down long enough, he could come up with plenty of drawbacks that would dissuade him from that fact. Or he could continue to press it down. Dating Atsumu— _really_ dating him—remains and unknown, and Kiyoomi has never been good at unknowns.

But it’s his mind that craves routine, that quakes at the thought of sudden change, that knows the shattered feeling left in the wake of that change. There is a comfort in keeping things the same.

He didn’t think Atsumu would pull him in that deep. Outside of class, Atsumu hadn’t been a social person before midterms. In fact, Kiyoomi had frequented far more parties than he had seen Atsumu at.

Kiyoomi thought a few appearances for Atsumu’s friends throughout the semester, a few cups of coffee, a few pictures on social media—he thought that minimum would be enough.

He had underestimated just how much Atsumu wanted to drag everyone down with him.

And Kiyoomi—ever the reluctant adapter to life—had adapted out of necessity, unknowing that Atsumu would end up demanding so much. It had left him now unwilling to choose on his own to go through that uncomfortable change again.

So, it’s his mind, not his heart, that tells him Atsumu shouldn’t leave just yet. Tells him to grab his lime colored coat and follow Atsumu out the door.

“I’ll come with you,” he says to Atsumu who’s waiting by the elevator.

There’s a slight widening to Atsumu’s eyes as he realizes he’s been followed, but it only lasts a second. “Yer gonna hate it,” he says and steps into the elevator.

Kiyoomi follows, dread souring his stomach. “Your car can’t be that dirty.” But he’s already thinking how he hadn’t brought any wipes. There’s only a used mask in his jacket pocket, and he really doesn’t want to wear it if he doesn’t have to.

“That’s not it.” Atsumu hits the button for the ground floor. “But hey, why not? Nobody lets me drive them around anymore, so could be fun.” He doesn’t sound convinced, but Kiyoomi is.

Convinced that he’s made a mistake following Atsumu. But he can’t go back now.

All of these interrupted and half-formed plans are making him lose his equilibrium.

“That doesn’t sound promising,” Kiyoomi says as the elevator dings and the doors open for them. There’s a wolfish grin on Atsumu’s face, which is also not reassuring but better than the sullen mood he’d arrived with.

Outside, Kiyoomi is once again struck by how dark it is. Not only are the days becoming shorter at an alarming pace, but this town—with its buildings no taller than four or five floors—can’t hold a candle to how bright Tokyo shines at night. Here, the night’s ceiling seems so much lower, held up by street lamps and dimly shining windows overhead instead of skyscrapers lit up with employees and their overtime. Kiyoomi’s still getting used to the closeness.

And he’s always had trouble with proximity.

Atsumu’s car is exactly what Kiyoomi would have expected from him. It’s bright and a luxury model, lights blinking at them as it’s unlocked. Atsumu spins the keys around his finger as they approach. Despite the muddy, wet weather, the red is unblemished and sleek. Against his better judgement, Kiyoomi is impressed.

Kiyoomi finds it’s clean on the inside, too. There’s no fast food wrappers or receipts littering the floor, no empty cans or bottles in the cupholders. Nothing shoved into the door pockets or hanging from the rearview mirror.

“Alright, my car, my rules,” Atsumu says as he throws himself into the driver’s seat. “I pick the music. You get to buckle up and shut up.”

Kiyoomi raises his eyebrows but still reaches for the seatbelt. “No talking?” he says. “That seems out of character for someone who can’t seem to stop.”

“It’s just a precursor.” Atsumu starts the engine, and with one flick of his wrist, cranks the music up until the car is practically vibrating all around them. “This is so I can’t hear your screams,” Atsumu shouts, and the car lurches out of the parking spot and onto the road.

Some kind of noise squeezes out of Kiyoomi’s throat, but he can’t hear it. The music is pumping, Atsumu rolls the windows down so that the outside air rushes in and steals their breaths, like being plunged into ice covered water. One hand is on the grab handle, the other is tightened around the seatbelt, directly over his hammering heart.

But it isn’t until they take the exit ramp at the end of the road and enter the highway that Atsumu really jacks up the speed.

The hour is past the commuter rush, so the lanes are largely empty. Or maybe that’s because Atsumu weaves in and out of the little herds of cars traveling the speed limit until he’s back to rushing through empty space.

They whiz under a row of light posts, and the orange glow stripes through the car so quickly that Kiyoomi feels like they’re in a rocket ship taking off.

He opens his mouth to accuse Atsumu of showing off, but he can’t hear his own voice leaving his mouth. Besides, he thinks this might be a step beyond simply showing off.

His nose is numb, his fingers like icicles, and his eyes water from the wind. Under his thigh and against his back, the music thrums through the seat, the bass disguised as muffled punches. The sound of it is distorted by the rush of the wind in his ears.

But his words still don’t come because, when he looks over at Atsumu, it’s not the expression he was picturing. He expected that fierce grin, teeth glinting, the same one he’d seen leaving the elevator. Some kind of twisted pleasure at causing Kiyoomi such distress.

Instead, it’s something calm. As if he had cruise control set to the speed limit and was just counting down the miles to his exit. Yet, his hands are white knuckled around the steering wheel and he’s pushing past ninety, his foot surely pressed to the floor.

“ _You’re going to kill us_ ,” comes Kiyoomi’s delayed shouts, choking out of his throat, but even he doesn’t hear the words.

Atsumu must hear the barest inflection of Kiyoomi’s voice because he looks over and grins, but it doesn’t crinkle his eyes. They’re wide, maybe manic, if Kiyoomi’s view in the dark can be trusted.

Kiyoomi wants to hit him to reiterate his unheard words, but he’s afraid of any distract that might pull whatever level of concentration Atsumu needs to keep them on the road. And he’s afraid of letting his handholds go.

So, Kiyoomi keeps his hands tightly clutched to their fixed points, pins his eyes on the road, and thinks, if he concentrates hard enough, they’ll stay on the road. Atsumu’s grin slides away with the disappearance of Kiyoomi’s reaction, and he returns his almost disinterested stare completely to the road, head slightly cocked Kiyoomi’s way like he’s leaning in just so if Kiyoomi speaks again, he’ll hear it.

Kiyoomi doesn’t know how long they drive or how far. He hadn’t paid the time any notice with the first lurch of the car, and even now, he realizes the car’s clock is set to some European time showing four in the morning.

When Kiyoomi’s adrenaline has simultaneously numbed him and filled his veins with electricity, the car slows. It’s a significant change, enough for his chest to pitch against the seatbelt, but Kiyoomi notices they’re just over the speed limit. Atsumu flashes his blinker and takes the next exit. Suddenly, the windows seal, and Atsumu hits something that cuts the music off all at once. The silence is stuffy and makes it just as hard to breathe as when the cold blew in for the first time. Kiyoomi feels like he needs to pop his ears.

“Sorry,” Atsumu says after they’ve reentered the highway in the opposite direction. “To make it up to you, we can study when we get back like you wanted.”

It takes Kiyoomi a second to reply. He unclenches his teeth and his fingers, bringing them up to massage the hinges of his jaw. “Do you feel better now,” his voices rasps. He’d been going for a snappish reply, but his voice doesn’t hold out for him.

Atsumu blinks, and when Kiyoomi looks, it’s the same expression as when they were flying down the road. “No,” he finally says.

He doesn’t turn the music back on or open the windows again. The car eventually warms up, and the silence follows them the rest of the way back.

Outside of the car, Kiyoomi’s legs feel like jelly and he feels judged with Atsumu following behind him all the way back. His head is full of fog, but if Atsumu sticks to what he said, then Kiyoomi will just have to power through the studying. It had never been the plan to let the night be a waste, so Kiyoomi will be sure it isn’t.

Because it doesn’t look like anything will turn Atsumu’s mood around tonight.

But Kiyoomi tells himself that’s okay. Sometimes he gets into slumps that last days, no matter all the tricks he’s come to know after all these years. Atsumu’s slump could be something in the same vein as that, and since Kiyoomi hasn’t been around long enough to figure out any tricks, he’s simply playing it by ear.

Kiyoomi isn’t sure how he feels getting to know Atsumu’s bad habits one-by-one. And the more he learns, the more it proves every word Kita told him.

And if the driving fast, the smoking, the drinking—if it all stops making him feel better at least for a bit, how much further is Atsumu prepared to go?

All the lights are on when Kiyoomi steps into his apartment, and he knows that means Komori is back. He eyes his bedroom door and sighs. It’s too far away to try and slip by unnoticed.

“I see we have _guests_.” Komori comes out from the kitchen. Kiyoomi smells something cooking despite it being nearly ten o’clock. Despite the judgement he feels, it’s Komori’s eyebrows that raise at the sight of him before he smirks. “What the hell is up with your hair?”

Kiyoomi doesn’t want to see. He’s sure it looks like he rode a rollercoaster for an hour straight, which as he’s now found out, is practically the same thing as driving with Atsumu.

“So yer the cousin Omi told about the fake dating setup before he even bothered tellin’ me,” Atsumu says, coming up beside Kiyoomi. “Nice ta meetcha.”

The sulky raincloud that had been hovering over him has evaporated, and Kiyoomi sees the self-assured arrogance he’d see any other day pinned across his face in a solid mask. Even Kiyoomi would believe it if he hadn’t just been trapped in a car with him.

“Komori Motoya,” Komori says. “It’s a pleasure, Atsumu-kun.”

“Omi’s told me so much about ya, we’re practically friends already.”

Komori’s smile is half plastic, but he doesn’t say anything more on it. “You’ve sure roped him into something complicated,” he says. “But I’ll admit, I think it’s good for him.” His smile turns devious, and Kiyoomi fights back a groan.

“I’m standing right here,” he says and reaches out to pinch the sleeve of Atsumu’s sweater. To his surprise, Atsumu moves with the slightest pull. Then, his fingertips against Atsumu’s back, Kiyoomi pushes him toward his room. “And we have studying to do.”

“Sure, I won’t bug you.” Komori turns back to the kitchen. “Couch is yours if you want it, Atsumu. And if it’s alright with Kiyoomi.”

Atsumu looks back at Kiyoomi a little bit smug, and Kiyoomi pushes him harder, hoping his nails bite through the two layers of fabric.

“Don’t push your luck,” Kiyoomi says, but he already knows he’s going to let Atsumu do what he wants, and if Atsumu doesn’t want to go back to his dorm tonight, then where else is there to go?

Kiyoomi closes the door behind them. It’s nice not having to worry about acting around Komori, but Komori is still nosy, and Kiyoomi really just needs to get an understanding of this convoluted subject so he can score well on the final and be done with it.

“I ain’t got a clue how to study this crap,” Atsumu says and plops to the floor. “But I said we’d study, so let’s do it.”

“It’s all just theories about understanding how we think.” Kiyoomi sits sideways in his desk chair and pull his notes in his lap. _So, we’re not going to talk about what just happened in the car?_ he wants to ask, but then they’d never get to philosophy. Not when Atsumu is such a more interesting subject to learn. “Let’s just talk through the notes. What can you tell me about solipsism?”

Atsumu blinks up at him. “Um, can ya give me a hint?”

“It’s under the section on Descartes.”

“That’s the ‘I think, therefore I am’ guy, right?”

“Yes,” Kiyoomi says. “Solipsism is basically what the theory of that is called.”

Atsumu flops onto his back. “Sure, but the definition’s probably way wordier than I care to remember.”

“It’s not that bad.” A corner of his mouth lifts as he flips to the definition. “The theory that the self is all that can be known to exist. It should be easy to remember because you had that breakdown. When Descartes was introduced, Takeda started on the topic of doubt, what falls into the knowable and unknowable word, and we covered all those arguments that basically proved very little could be confirmed _knowable_. But because we have the capability to think, we proved our own existence.”

“Hm, you’re right. That’s when I fell down that rabbit hole of simulation theories on YouTube.”

“And you wouldn’t stop pestering me about it all week.”

Atsumu cranes his neck up to look at Kiyoomi. “I dunno. Despite the existential dread, it was still pretty interestin’.”

“You say that now, but you still lost sleep over it.”

“Plus,” Atsumu says as he pulls his sweater over his head, “that’s how we became friends, Omi.”

Kiyoomi frowns. “That’s not—”

“That’s the first time you didn’t ignore me, so I’m just callin’ like it see it.” Atsumu grins cheekily.

Pleasantly annoyed, Kiyoomi looks away. He’s positive the smile is only because Atsumu’s making fun of him, but it’s also weird to look at him in a white shirt. Like it’s too bright and hurts his eyes.

“You’ll like the next topic,” Kiyoomi says to change the subject, and to take his own jab at Atsumu. “Egoism.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Atsumu pouts.

“It’s categorized into…” Kiyoomi looks to Atsumu to finish.

“Like I remember,” Atsumu says. “I haven’t done homework in, like, two weeks.”

“Descriptive—or psychological egoism—and normative—or ethical egoism,” Kiyoomi finishes. “That people _do_ act in self-interest or that they _should_.”

“Why does everything have to have so many names?” Atsumu groans. “I’m never gonna remember any of it.”

Kiyoomi flips ahead in his notes. “I think if you know the theories by at least one name, you’ll be fine. It _is_ an intro level course.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

“Yes, and we get to be trapped in it together. How fun,” Kiyoomi says flatly. “So ethical egoism says people should act selfishly because it’s morally right.”

“ _Nice_.”

“Psychological egoism says people always act selfishly, though they might try to disguise their motives,” Kiyoomi continues. “I want to go over this one more because Takeda spent more time on it in the next lesson.”

Atsumu rubs his temples with the tips of his fingers. “Ya mean altruism,” he says. “Takeda went from psychological egoism to psychological altruism.”

Kiyoomi bites his cheek so nothing slips past his lips without thinking first. He’d been expecting to lecture Atsumu their way through their notes all evening. “You remember,” he says after a beat.

Atsumu shrugs. “Sure, that was the class I took notes for ya.” He smirks. “I didn’t do the readin’, but I guess I paid extra attention ‘specially for ya.”

“Alright.” Kiyoomi doesn’t take the bait, but he feels the tips of his ears heating from the embarrassing memory. “Tell me how the two relate then.”

“Hmm.” Atsumu plants his fist against his cheek, smooshing it until his lips pucker. “Psychological altruism was the theory that we can want to act for someone else’s sake without gettin’ anything outa it.”

“That’s right.”

“And psychological egoism says altruistic acts are nice but not a moral obligation. People’re fundamentally selfish, so psychological egoists say altruism is impossible.” Atsumu smiles victoriously. “I can imagine the philosophers got into some pretty nerdy debates over it, but they prolly just wanted to argue egoism just so they could do whatever they wanted.”

“And to think we have to learn all about those selfish nerds now,” Kiyoomi says so he doesn’t have to comment on Atsumu’s correct explanation. He goes back through his notes, looking for something else for them to cover. He’s getting tired, and his skin is starting to crawl with the telltale signs of needing a shower. He would have taken one after they got back, but Atsumu has been more than enough distraction tonight, even from the dry, wrung-out feeling of his skin, and Kiyoomi’s head is too full of thoughts about thinking.

“The egoists also said something like altruistic acts are only performed by exceptional people,” Atsumu continues, and he stares at Kiyoomi unblinking long enough that it makes him want to squirm, though he refuses to look up. “I guess that makes you pretty exceptional, Omi.”

Kiyoomi’s head snaps up from his notes. “Why do you say that?” is quickly out of his mouth.

Atsumu frowns, like he thought it was obvious. “Well, you pretendin’ to be my boyfriend.” He squints at Kiyoomi. “And I still haven’t figured out why, so I’d say that’s pretty _altruistic_ on you.”

His mouth dry, Kiyoomi flounders. “No,” he says carefully. “I’m pretty sure I side with the egoists on this one. Nobody does anything without at least _some_ amount of self-interest.”

Atsumu’s purses his lips as his eyes flick back and forth. He’s thinking hard on something, and Kiyoomi’s not sure he’s interested in hearing about their messed-up relationship viewed from under a philosophical lens.

“You were sayin’ some Kant quote earlier,” Atsumu finally says. “I remember it from studyin’ for midterms. What was it?”

Kiyoomi finds the quote quickly, anything to put Atsumu on a new train of thought. “’Act in such a way that you treat humanity, whether in your own person or in the person of any other, never merely as a means, but always at the same time as an end.’”

“Yeah, that.” Atsumu frowns. “I don’t buy yer selfish crap, Omi.” He opens his mouth, but the words die there. He huffs them out in a sigh instead before starting again. “Am I using you as a means?”

Well, Atsumu certainly has more of an understanding than Kiyoomi had expected. He’d known Atsumu to be smart. Like he said at the bonfire, Atsumu would have done better at his midterm exam if he hadn’t overcompensated for the quote section. He’d done too much memorization and not enough understanding. Now, Kiyoomi is seeing that Atsumu has learned from his mistakes.

The bad news is, once something is understood, it becomes easier to apply it outside the classroom.

Kiyoomi closes his notes and leaves them on the desk before he turns fully around to straddle his chair. He rests his chin on his hands placed on the chair’s back.

“You’re not using me as a means, Atsumu,” he says slowly. “I’m guessing you didn’t read the homework article we were assigned with Kant. An agent using another does not use the other merely as a means if the other can consent to the agent’s use of him.”

“Oh.” Atsumu cocks his head. “I didn’t read that.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “I consented to all of this, so it doesn’t matter if you don’t believe I get anything out of this arrangement. It doesn’t matter even if I don’t get anything out of it. I said I would.”

Atsumu still doesn’t look convinced. “But you were drunk.”

“ _You_ were drunk. _I_ was not.” Kiyoomi stands, and Atsumu has to lean back on his hands to look up at him. He thinks they’ve done enough studying for the night. “Stop shitting on yourself. It’s uncharacteristically disturbing. What Kant means is using deception or coercion to use another person. Now, I am getting a shower. You can get one when I’m finished.”

He crosses the room and Atsumu’s head swivels to watch him.

“I, uh, didn’t bring anything with me.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes again, but he’s facing away from Atsumu so he can’t see. “You’re not the only one with an extra toothbrush lying around. If you stay here tonight, we’ll make do. Like Komori said, you get the couch.”

He doesn’t have to turn around to see Atsumu’s smile, he hears it in his voice.

“Yer the best, Omi!”

And it might be the first genuine smile of the night, but Kiyoomi wouldn’t know for sure, not until he looks back over his shoulder.

“And for the record, you weren’t drunk either. Not when we made the agreement the day after.” Kiyoomi watches an indecipherably thoughtful expression morph Atsumu’s face. “The only thing you were actually drunk for was the fight with your brother,” he adds and then walks into the bathroom and shuts the door before Atsumu can think of any more thought provoking things to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope no philosophy majors are criticizing this chapter too hard! Most of it came from deciphering my notes from seven years ago!
> 
> Everyone's comments and kudos have been so, so kind and sweet. Thank you <3 They're definitely helping me get through this rough month.
> 
> Have a great weekend!
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://silentmarco.tumblr.com)


	10. I tell ya, baby, I don’t think we’re doing fine

Atsumu was born October fifth at 8:37 a.m. Twenty-one minutes later, Osamu was born, 8:58 a.m., which gave Atsumu lifetime bragging rights over claiming the oldest sibling spot. And while Osamu was just a smidge better at a lot more things than Atsumu as they grew up, the fact that Atsumu was older always gave him a leg to stand on in any argument. Then, just over fifty percent of the time, he finished the fight with one other thing he was good at: Throwing a punch.

But those twenty-one minutes did a lot more than give Atsumu an advantage one out of every two fights—and there were a lot of them—because those were twenty-one minutes that they ever lived apart from each other.

Those were twenty-one minutes that Atsumu took sobbing breaths, surrounded by their parents, doctors, and nurses, while Osamu spent the time completely and utterly alone for the first and only time in his life.

It’s only during very long stretches of one of them pulling the silent treatment that Atsumu ever thinks about this. The loneliness of the youngest twin.

Because everyone starts off their existence alone until they’re born and pushed out into a world full of people. Except multiples, like twins. For them, there was always someone else when, for almost everyone else, there was no one.

But one has to leave before the other. And the youngest? They haven’t taken their first breath yet, but do they know? Do they feel the loss of being on their own for the first time?

Atsumu thinks so, because while one twin will never be without someone else filling his world, the other twin will have experienced the loss of someone else, the sudden emptiness left in their wake.

Atsumu thinks so, because despite being altogether bad with social skills and getting along with others and not always wanting to, the aloneness he was so used to always felt like an itch he couldn’t scratch. A restlessness that demanded something he couldn’t always give—and he’d tried plenty of vices to keep that restlessness at bay. And Osamu, who always had no trouble making friends or getting along with others, he slipped silence on like a glove. He never seemed to seek it out, but when he was on his own, he sat with it comfortably.

Atsumu thinks about this late into Friday night on Sakusa’s couch. He thinks about how easily it is for Osamu to abandon their childhood friends, to drop out of school, and worst of all, to leave him behind.

But that only makes sense. Osamu is the only one to have ever been truly alone in this world.

Atsumu’s phone goes off just before nine Saturday morning. It takes himself a second to find it, blinking his blurry eyes while he reorients himself to his strange surroundings. The light comes in from windows at a different angle than his dorm, there’s the clean scent of disinfectant mixed with the leather from the couch he’s on, which sticks to his back from where his shirt has ridden up.

His phone rattles on a coffee table behind his head, and he grabs it and presses it to his ear just before it cuts off to his voicemail.

“Hey,” he says groggily, but it’s better than sounding hungover.

“Oh, good, Atsumu. You picked up,” his mom says, her voice much more awake and hurried for his brain to keep up with. “I was hoping to catch ya before I ran my errands.”

“It’s Atsumu, Ma,” he groans, free hand rubbing over his face. “Ya gotta stop mixin’ us up.”

There’s a pause. “I know,” she says. “Yer who I meant to call.” Then, she laughs. It’s light and distant over the phone, but it makes Atsumu sit up. It’s been a while since he’s heard her laugh, he realizes. “’m sorry. Did I wake ya?”

“Yeah, but that’s alright.”

“I wanted to ask you about yer winter break.”

“We’re still comin’ back, if that’s what yer askin’,” he says. “Last final is next Friday morning. We’ll probably leave after that if ‘Samu and Suna aren’t pokin’ around too long.”

“Yer brother already told ya Rintarou-kun’s stayin’ with us?”

Atsumu swallows, wondering how he’s supposed to spend nearly a month in such a tight space with both Osamu _and_ Suna, and he doesn’t even want to be thinking about Osamu right now, let alone share their tinier childhood bedroom.

“Yeah, Ma. He told me.”

“Good,” she chirps. “I want ya to invite Kiyoomi-kun, too.”

The sound of Sakusa’s given name coming out of his mom’s mouth feels like butterflies getting tangled up in his intestines. It’s the inevitability of it, even though there’s absolutely no guarantee of Sakusa ever agreeing to step foot in his home.

If the closeness of everyone in one house is enough to suffocate Atsumu, he can’t imagine what it’d do to Sakusa.

“I dunno, Ma.” Despite Osamu’s warning that this would come up, Atsumu’s still at a loss of what to do. Isn’t a fake boyfriend for exactly these instances? To show off to people who want to see you happily in a relationship in the first place? But there’s no way any other fake boyfriend is like Sakusa. “I don’t think he’ll want to.”

“No harm in askin’ then, is there?”

“Yeah, I mean, I’ll ask.” He sinks lower into the couch. “But he has family way in Tokyo.”

“He’s goin’ all the way to Tokyo? By himself?”

“I told ya, I don’t know. I haven’t asked him about his plans yet.”

She makes a tutting sound. “Not a very _observant_ boyfriend, are you.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes. “Ma, we have _finals_. There hasn’t been time for much else.” He doesn’t mention the parties and the hangovers or the fact that he’s crashing on Sakusa’s couch as they speak while he gives Osamu the cold shoulder. He hasn’t posted anymore drunk selfies since the bonfire, so there’s no way she can contradict him.

Because, when she actually starts acting like a mom, there’s the timeless feeling like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar. It’s a role she’s been in and out of for two years now, and despite feeling like that little kid—ready to get caught not studying, drinking too much, smoking, lying about his boyfriend—there’s a comfort to having a mom _be a mom_.

Atsumu finds he’s not as afraid of her tearing apart his lie as he is of Osamu or Kita.

It makes him…happy.

“Alright,” she says, dragging out the word. “Study hard. Yer grades have been good, so just keep it up through finals. And let me know about Kiyoomi-kun.”

Atsumu hangs up after that and pushes himself to his feet. It's an earlier start than his usual Saturday, but he's also not hungover, which is a definite improvement. It makes him remember the first half of the semester when he and Osamu did nothing but be studious and hang out with their high school friends. Having Kita and Aran around made the transition to university seamless, but looking back on it now, it might have been a crutch. He never did end up making other friends beyond Sakusa.

On the other hand, Atsumu would have bombed his midterms like Osamu if Kita hadn't kept the both of them on a short leash at the beginning.

Now, he has to find his own way through finals. He’s not entirely on his own though.

Sakusa's kitchen is neatly organized, so much so that it's completely bare with everything put away, and there's no telling what cabinet or drawer something might be hiding in. Atsumu hovers, peers into the sink, stares at cabinet doors as if he'll suddenly acquire x-ray vision.

Atsumu might not be feeling hungover, but he'll never be a morning person. He needs caffeine. Back in his dorm, he could have made instant coffee in a minute with the electric kettle.

The door to Sakusa's room opens, and when Atsumu looks, he finds him looking in on him.

"What're you doing?" Sakusa asks.

Atsumu glances at the cabinets again. "Lookin' for a mug," he says. "And yer coffee machine and yer coffee, but I don't wanna—” he gestures at the kitchen “—mess with yer _system_.”

Sakusa rolls his eyes and walks in, brushing past Atsumu as he does. "I appreciate the sentiment, but it's not like I live here alone. Komori puts his grubby hands on everything, and do you think he wipes everything down when he's done? No." He opens a cupboard and hands Atsumu the white mug he pulls out.

Atsumu takes it with both hands. "Ah," he surveys. "So, it's not a bad day then."

Sakusa observes him in return, as if contemplating the words before he speaks. "No," he says. "It's not a bad day." He bends over and produces the coffee maker from one of the bottom cabinets. "But I guess that depends how long you plan on staying."

"What if I don't plan on leavin'?"

Sakusa purses his lips at him. "Hmm," is the only sound he makes. Then, he plugs in the machine and pulls a container of coffee from a drawer, before leaving Atsumu to his own devices.

“Ain’t I the guest?” Atsumu calls after him. “I shouldn’t have to make my own coffee.”

But Sakusa doesn’t reply.

"I'll leave eventually," Atsumu huffs under his breath, then gets to work figuring out Sakusa's coffee maker.

Of course he’ll leave. Eventually. He couldn’t expect to hide out in Sakusa’s apartment for the rest of the semester—though it had seemed like a perfectly viable option last night. For one, he doesn’t have any clothes. Even if he wanted to stick around longer, Sakusa would inevitably kick him out after he started to stink.

There was also the problem of missing his laptop and notes. Despite coming to Sakusa’s impromptu study session-turned-sleepover unprepared, Atsumu doesn’t actually plan on winging his finals. He doesn’t plan on flunking out like no-good Osamu.

What was the point of him tagging along behind Atsumu to university in the first place if he was only going to end up dropping out?

It pissed Atsumu off then, and while the way things have ended up should satisfy any thoughts of revenge or karma, it only pisses him off more now.

He got _used_ to Osamu being here. And now he’s going to have to get used to him not being here. The fact that Osamu’s not the least bit concerned makes it feel like only Atsumu is getting hit by some bad, undeserved karma.

And now? He just wishes he could do something, _anything_ to get under Osamu’s skin. Something worse than stealing the car and abandoning him and Suna at the restaurant. Though that was pretty good. If only he’d somehow seen their reactions.

Even the fake relationship with Sakusa only seemed to bug Osamu for a week. Maybe. There were a few obnoxious parties, but they never lasted long. Their ma’s winter break invitation could be just the opening he’s looking for, but that’s only if Sakusa agrees to go, and seeing how quickly he rejected the movie double date, Atsumu doesn’t have high hopes.

If only it were as easy to get a reaction out of Osamu as it was when they were kids. Back then, all it took was one wrong step, a misspoken word, and either one of them would be riled up, swinging and yelling until someone stepped in to pull them apart.

Now, Atsumu feels like he has to be blatantly mean to get Osamu to notice anything, to get even the slightest bit of attention. And he doesn’t want to just be mean about it. But if he could find the right thing to do, the right thing to say, he’d do it. Anything to get them back on the same footing, to get their relationship back to how it used to be.

Osamu had a boyfriend? Well, obviously to be on the same level, Atsumu had to have one, too. Claiming to have one first was just the cherry on top because he could.

The coffee machine dings and Sakusa reappears in the kitchen. He has the blanket he’d lent Atsumu last night balled up in his hands.

“Are you planning on standing there all day?” he says with a frown. “And please don’t tell me you’re just going to wear the same clothes you slept in.”

There’s a crinkle to his nose that makes Atsumu smile. He fills his mug and turns to lean against the counter and face Sakusa.

“Tell me, Omi-kun. Are you goin’ back to Tokyo for break?”

“Why would I drive all that way when I’m paying rent here?” He drops the disgusted look on his face at the subject change and raises a brow. “My family doesn’t do much for the holidays anyway. I have a sister in Sendai and a brother in Niigata. They have their own families now, so there’s never been much of a point. Motoya isn’t going back either.”

Atsumu blinks. He had no idea Sakusa has siblings. The idea of Sakusa growing up having something like Atsumu has with Osamu seems ridiculous. But from what Sakusa had said, they don’t sound close in age.

And Tokyo is so far away, of course Sakusa wouldn’t be going back, even if he sounded like he wanted to. Atsumu’s childhood home is only an hour—he could make it in less if he really wanted—which was why this university was popular with his high school peers.

Distantly, in-between coming up with the words to ask Sakusa to go home with him, he wonders if there was a reason to go to a university so far from home. There are plenty of good schools around Tokyo. But the thought slips through his fingers quickly in light of the more pressing question.

“All the better then,” Atsumu says. “My ma invited you to spend the break with us. I know what ya just said about the rent, but ya know, could be a good opportunity to schmooze over how great a couple we are.”

Sakusa opens his mouth, eyebrows drawn. Then, he closes it.

“Suna’s stayin’ with us, too. It’ll be the fullest the house has been in a long time if ya come,” Atsumu continues. The mug is burning his fingers, but he grips it tighter, waiting for Sakusa to turn him down already. He hadn’t thought rejection would be so different than over the phone. “Plus, Ma’s real intent on meetin’ ya.”

“Let me—” Sakusa stops, lips pushed together again. His shoulders rise with quick, shallow breaths he takes in through his nose. “Let me think about it.”

Atsumu shrugs. “Alright,” he says, “but I bet it’ll be better than stickin’ around here. Oh, and a bunch of free meals.”

Sakusa doesn’t say anything, hands balling up the blanket tighter and tighter.

“And when I say full house, it’ll only be the five of us, but it’s a step up from three.” It had only been the three of them for so long now, and Atsumu still can’t imagine their mom in that house by herself. For months. “Maybe it won’t feel all that different. You know how ‘Samu and I can get.”

The words are out before he can reconsider holding them back. He’s smiling, but he can’t really feel it.

And he doesn't mean to give Sakusa such a clear opening—doesn't expect Sakusa to take it—but of course Sakusa does. It's a topic change, swapping his discomfort for Atsumu's.

"Is that what happened last night?"

It’s the opportunity to let his smile drop away. "I didn't punch him in public if that's what yer askin'," he says. "And speakin' of, you promised me we'd go out tonight."

"I'll think about it," Sakusa says and starts off toward his room. "But you have to read over my essay first."

"What?" Atsumu squawks and hurries after him. "That wasn't the deal."

Sakusa shoves the blanket into his hamper. "If you're staying here all day, I'm not letting you laze around on my couch."

Atsumu pouts. He did say he wouldn't wing his finals.

"But I don't have mine with me."

Sakusa looks back at him, eyebrows raised.

Atsumu scowls. "Don't gimme that look. I started writing it. Promise."

Sakuse straightens. "Alright then. You look over mine today, then email me yours tomorrow," he says.

"And we can go out tonight."

Rolling his eyes, Sakusa grabs a stack of clothes from the top of his dresser. He turns back and hands them to Atsumu. "If it'll get you to stop complaining."

"You need a break from studyin' anyways, Omi-kun." Atsumu thinks maybe he deserves a break, too, but he can't say for sure what he needs a break from. Then, he notices what Sakusa had handed him. "Hey! These are mine."

"They're the clothes you lent me after that party," Sakusa says. "I meant to get them back to you earlier, but I guess it worked out this way."

The sweatpants are the ones that hang low on his hips and get stuck under his heels. That's why he'd given them to Sakusa that morning. And the sweater is long, too. Atsumu wonders if it had stretched over Sakusa's shoulders. He's not much taller than Atsumu, but his shoulders are broader. He never got a chance to see it on him. 

Considering what he'd worn last night, it's definitely a stay-at-home outfit. One Atsumu wouldn't want to wear out in public—maybe that's Sakusa's point, trying to weasel out of their deal—but knowing Sakusa, they would be clean at least.

Sakusa taps Atsumu's shoulders with the very tips of his fingers and turns him toward the bathroom. "Go change. You stink," he says. "Then you can look at my paper."

It's some senior's party at one of the on-campus townhouse apartments, easy walking distance from Atsumu's dorm, but they drive in, parking in a tucked away lot Atsumu didn't even know existed. Kita's around here somewhere, Atsumu caught a quick glimpse of him. Aran and Gin are, too. But he knows Osamu and Rin aren't, as long as Osamu sticks to his threat of staying away from parties the rest of the semester.

He doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s avoiding the others just as much as he’s avoiding Osamu. He doesn’t want to worry about what a conversation with either one of them might lead to and he definitely doesn’t want to face them looking the way he does tonight.

Atsumu’s wearing this pastel blue sweatshirt that Sakusa that thrown at him before they left and his black jeans from last night, which Sakusa had permitted. The bright colors that he’s always found so hideously acceptable—good even—on Sakusa make him feel exposed. He recognizes the sweatshirt from the bonfire night, remembers how soft it felt with his cheek pressed against it when he woke up the next morning. Now, it smells too much like Sakusa—clean, but like someone else’s house, someone else’s detergent—and it’s soft and Atsumu can’t stop running his hands along the sleeves.

He wants everyone to see him in Sakusa’s clothes—that’s kind of the point—but he doesn’t want to be confronted about it so openly.

That, and he doesn’t feel like facing Kita. Knowing him, he’s probably already talked with Osamu, and he’ll have one big lecture in store for Atsumu.

Atsumu can’t tell if he’d rather be drunk or sober for it, but either way, not tonight. Not when he’s dragged Sakusa out despite his grumbling. So, he shies away and wonders if Sakusa feels the same way when he’s dressed up in all these bright colors. Look, don’t touch.

Atsumu gets it.

Sakusa's one shot in. As usual, he shows no interest in moving past tipsy, which is enough inebriation that Atsumu can kiss him, but not enough so that he can't make the drive home. Since Atsumu is planning on following back to his apartment again, he supposes he doesn't have any complaints.

Though part of him thinks, if he convinces Sakusa to go back to his dorm for the night, that might be enough to really tick Osamu off, but Atsumu can’t say he’s want to put that on Sakusa’s shoulders.

He just wishes he could see Sakusa go all out like their first party. The one where he got sleepy drunk and was somehow persuaded into Atsumu's bed. The thought almost makes Atsumu wish he had been sober enough to remember it, if only to properly tease him about it.

Atsumu makes his way back through the crowded room from the kitchen. He’s double-fisting two drinks—something fruity—as he returns to Sakusa, who he left on the hard brick of the fireplace. The apartments on this side of campus were renovated years ago. They’re old buildings and the fireplaces don’t work. They’re more for show than anything, left only because the cost of removing them outweighed cleaning and leaving them be.

If Atsumu were being particularly picky about his alcohol tonight, he would have tracked down Kita. Surely, he would have been able to produce something Atsumu would enjoy, but Atsumu can’t really find the energy in himself to care tonight. If he downs these two drinks fast enough, he should move past the point of being able to taste anything too strongly.

“I promise, this will be the last time before finals,” Atsumu says, and hates how the promise echoes Osamu’s.

Sakusa looks up at him, curly fringe falling into one eye. He shrugs and leans forward with his elbows on his knees as Atsumu sits down beside him. “If it wasn’t you, I’d be somewhere else with Motoya. Both of you require some level of supervision.”

“Not that yer cousin doesn’t seem cool, but he also doesn’t seem the trashy party type,” Atsumu says.

“He’s not, but it’s his way of making friends. He’s a people person,” Sakusa says and looks properly disgusted by that fact. “We both grew up with pretty strict parents. This is just one way of stretching his wings.”

“Is it yours?” Atsumu asks. He doesn’t think so—there is no allure here for Sakusa—but…

“No,” Sakusa says. “I don’t have wings to stretch.” He cuts a sideways look at Atsumu. “Unlike some people.”

“Oh yeah?” Atsumu knocks his drink back and drains half of it. “What do you mean by that?”

“Oh, just all the fake dating and the partying and overall bad decisions every other freshman seems intent on making,” Sakusa says in an offhand way, as if he’s trying to dodge Atsumu’s suspicion that he’s doing exactly what he said he wouldn’t do when they started this arrangement. “Plus all the making out.” He smirks. “You’re trying to experience it all at once. Good and bad. I’m content with not taking independence by the horns, flying too close to the sun, whatever.”

Atsumu decides not to call him out on the misstep into analysis. One wrong word, and it’ll be as though Atsumu were ripped open, all of his guts on display for Sakusa, who has proven he knows exactly where to prod, just the right questions to ask to get what he’s looking for.

It all becomes a very thin line between having a laugh and calling Atsumu out on every little thing he’s ever done wrong—chooses to do wrong—and why.

That, and Atsumu has a slippery tongue that will no doubt lose him his footing.

So, just as he would with Osamu—who knows better—or anyone else who steps just too close to the wrong side of this, Atsumu takes the low blow.

But then, Sakusa had, too. Atsumu doesn’t feel bad.

“Ya know what I think?” he says. “I think ya like the kissing. I mean, ya might hate the idea of it—what, with the drinkin’ beforehand—but ya said you’d draw the line and ya move it back just for this.” He leans into Sakusa’s space, expecting him to whirl back, but Sakusa doesn’t flinch. Atsumu’s nose is mere centimeters from his cheek, he can feel his own breath whispering warmly back against his lips. Clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, Atsumu moves away. “Tell me ‘bout all the partyin’ and drinkin’ yer so familiar with from before. Tell me ‘bout yer first kiss, Omi.”

Sakusa sighs through his nose. “Just because those things happened to me, and happened to me before you, doesn’t make them all that exciting.”

Atsumu crosses one leg over the other and hooks his foot around Sakusa’s ankle, just enough to nudge him off balance. “That mean this is more exciting?”

Sakusa hesitates only a second before his hand comes down on Atsumu’s knee to right himself. Atsumu eyes the hand. It’s a little early to tunnel vision in on it, but maybe that’s just the nature of the night and his mood, which he can’t seem to pin down either. How many drinks has he had already?

“Ma was wound tight with the divorce,” he murmurs. “She woulda snapped an’ killed us if we caused any trouble.”

And Kita had tried keeping them under control when they got here, but look at them now. Osamu was dropping out. Atsumu was stuck in the very deep hole he’d dug himself. The fastest path away was always down, and there’d been no question that he wanted to be far away.

His hand covers Sakusa’s as it lifts to retreat. He doesn’t remember having a free hand, but that must mean another drink down. He holds Sakusa’s hand in front of his face. He doesn’t know what he expected. Maybe some neatly trimmed nails—he would have thought Sakusa filed them down—unblemished hands without a speck of dirt to be seen.

Sakusa’s palm is clammy, his knuckles dry, a few places cracked. There’s a mole next to the knuckle of his pinky finger, another caught in the junction of his index finger and thumb. His nails are smooth, but they’re also low, no whites to be seen where they hug the nail beds. Most of the cuticles are gone and tiny scabs mark where flesh has been worried away down the sides of his nails.

His hands are clean, the nails wouldn’t snag on anything, nothing’s bleeding. The scabs wouldn’t even be that noticeable if Atsumu weren’t looking so closely.

Atsumu _likes_ Sakusa’s hands.

Sakusa breaks his hand free of Atsumu’s grip the same time Atsumu leans in again. It’s not to tease this time. There’s still the tunnel vision, the slippery way the world seems to disappear around its edges, but also the knowing that if he doesn’t do something, stupid words he doesn’t want to say might fall out of his mouth and change the topic. Put the focus on something else instead of the fact that he’s just drunk.

He misses Sakusa’s lips, of course, finding the corner of his mouth, nose brushing against his cheek. Sakusa sighs. Atsumu doesn’t know if it’s a stifled scream of frustration at dealing with him like this or a resignation to the circumstance, but Sakusa reangles Atsumu’s head with just his fingertips on his chin, and kisses him back.

This is why they came here, after all, to drink and kiss and forget about dumb things like finals and brothers and empty rooms and loneliness, which Atsumu is not.

“So—c’mon,” he says between kisses, then dodges to Sakusa’s jaw, kisses it before looking up at him, tongue poking out between his teeth. “First kiss.”

Sakusa opens his mouth as Atsumu continues moving along his jaw. Whether it’s to resist or explain or tell Atsumu to fuck off, he doesn’t say anything. They haven’t done anything beyond kissing. Even this, as simple as it is, must make Sakusa pause. Atsumu smirks into the hinge of his jaw, right below his ear.

“He was an upperclassman,” Sakusa says, and his voice comes so close that it gives Atsumu goosebumps. He’s glad his face it hidden. “After he graduated, he came back for winter break. He asked me to a mutual acquaintance’s New Year’s party, and that’s that.”

Frowning, Atsumu nips at Sakusa’s throat, right over his pulse, and pulls away. Sakusa hisses and rubs at the spot, though Atsumu hadn’t bit him hard enough to hurt.

“So what? You guys hooked up?”

Sakusa blinks back at him. “We kissed. Not so different from what you and I do,” Sakusa says. “That’s it.”

“Did you like him?”

“He was alright. Did I want to pursue a relationship with him?” Sakusa hums to himself. “I don’t know. He didn’t want anything else. He wasn’t out yet at the time. I barely was myself.”

Atsumu sticks his tongue out. “Lame.” He returns to Sakusa’s neck, teasing the skin lightly between his teeth. This time, Sakusa doesn’t react beyond an intake of breath.

“And that was just under a year ago. Happy?” Sakusa says, and Atsumu wishes he sounded a bit more like he has a hot guy kissing at his neck, because he does. “No need for you to be all jealous over something I’ve barely just done.”

Quickly losing interest, Atsumu pulls away again and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Sakusa raises his eyebrows. “Not sure which is worse, having your first kiss in a fake relationship or having it with a guy who wouldn’t want to date you publicly.”

They stare at each other for a moment before Sakusa finally drops his gaze.

“Anyway, the point was first kisses are always bullshit,” he continues. “If you want to make a big fuss over firsts just to antagonize your brother, fine. But don’t start putting too much stock in it yourself. It’d be a bummer to suddenly care and realize too many firsts were all part of something that’s not real to begin with.”

Atsumu stares back a moment longer, teeth suddenly clenched at Sakusa’s words.

“I don’t care,” he finally says. “All I want is for ‘Samu to feel the same way he’s made _me_ feel. Why can’t _he_ feel bad for once? Why can’t _he_ suffer? But no, he’s happy to walk ahead without thinkin’ about anyone else.”

Atsumu doesn’t know when exactly it happened, but he’s working himself back up to feeling pissed off. His fists are clenched over his knees, his voice is rising, and there are tiny hot pricks of tears forming in the corners of his eyes. He rubs at one with the heel of his hand.

“I _hate him_. I just—I just—” Atsumu buries his face into his hands, pressing hard until light explodes behind his closed eyelids. “What _more_ do I have to do?” The words are muffled into his arms and he’s sure no one but him hears them.

He thinks of the smoking, the drinking, the fast driving, the fake boyfriend—not once has anyone said anything. Osamu, Kita, everyone just stood by and let him do as he pleased. Only Sakusa ever made an objection, but that was because he was being forced to spend more time than necessary with him.

Atsumu could tear himself down to nothing and nobody would do anything more than turn a blind eye on him.

It’s not that he started all this like some desperate cry for help. The driving started after he’d gotten his license, after his dad left, and just because it felt like running away without really doing so. The smoking came after volleyball ended, when he was old enough to buy cigarettes, and he thought he might as well go through the pack now that he’d bought it. That, too, felt like some kind of revenge plot that didn’t end up hurting anyone because no one knew in the first place. Until they did.

Everything after just fell into place—falling, falling—and everyone else pretended not to see.

And the longer nobody said anything, the more Atsumu wanted to make them regret it.

He breathes in through his nose and all he can smell is Sakusa. He’s surrounded by him, his chest is tight, and there’s Sakusa telling him not to care about firsts and he _doesn’t_. Osamu was the one who ever cared about firsts because being first was the only thing Atsumu had and there was no changing that.

“Right,” Sakusa says, and it makes Atsumu look up. “You don’t have to care because it’s not real. If you think this fake relationship will fix things, then that’s the point.”

Sniffing dryly, Atsumu wipes at his other eye though no tears have escaped. “I still don’t get how it fixes things for you,” he says. “Last night, you said nobody does something without some selfish reason. I’m clearly a bad brother and just wanna torture ‘Samu into givin’ a fuck. Ya still haven’t told me yers.”

Sakusa considers him for a second. Atsumu wonders if he’s about to get called out on so obviously changing the topic. He’s been doing it all day.

“I get to be _seen_ ,” Sakusa says without breaking his unblinking eye contact.

Atsumu gives a weak snort into his elbow as he leans over his knees. “Don’t think that’s an issue, Omi. Yer like a neon sign walkin’ around most days.”

“Do you think I dressed like this in high school?” Sakusa frowns down at him. “I just told you my first kiss didn’t want to be seen publicly with me outside of that party. This may be a fucked-up situation, but I get to _look_ like I have a boyfriend without the expectations of actually having one. No messy breakups because my _issues_ become too much. It’s just a bubble to breathe in before I have to face the rest of the world as just me—no contract of what is or isn’t allowed out there.”

It’s like a shock of freezing water, shaking the remaining simmer of anger from Atsumu’s body. He squints at Sakusa. “Are you drunk.”

Sakusa’s brows furrow, lips parted before he snaps his mouth shut. “Oh fuck you,” he says and stands.

A little wobbly on his feet, Atsumu follows. He still has a drink in his hand and it’s lukewarm. He drinks from it. “Seriously though,” he says and sidles up alongside Sakusa, grabbing his hand and bumping shoulders, forcing them to walk close together through the crowded apartment, wherever Sakusa wants to go. “I like that. It’s cute. Makes me feel better knowin’ yer not just sufferin’ through this for my sake.”

“Like I would.” Sakusa sniffs. “You’re the one who’s drunk.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu agrees and takes another drink. “But that means you can do whatever yer gay little heart wants and I’ll be totally fine with it.” He doesn’t say he’s fine with it any other time as well.

“I’m done kissing you. We’re leaving.”

Atsumu clings to Sakusa’s arm as they find the front door and his grip tightens at the freezing air that meets them outside. The temperature is dropping way too quickly this year. The bottle is gone from his hand, and Atsumu wonders if Sakusa took it from him.

“Ya like kissin’ me. I already said that,” Atsumu says through chattering teeth.

On the sidewalk, Sakusa stops and turns to face him. From Atsumu’s determined grip on his arm, they’re nearly nose-to-nose. Sakusa tugs his arm free and raises both hands to cup Atsumu’s face. Atsumu is frozen to the spot. Such a blatant act is unheard of between them, and not usually initiated by Sakusa. And Atsumu believed him when he said he wasn’t drunk.

Sakusa’s sigh comes out as a tiny puff between them before he leans in and kisses him. His hands are still warm from the party and they make Atsumu realize how cold his cheeks are already. Sakusa kisses Atsumu, biting his lower lip before running his tongue over it. Atsumu shudders again from the cold and feels his stomach swoop. The cold could be sobering him up. He doesn’t think he’s kissed Sakusa sober either. He’s definitely not sober now, but to be aware of that fact and to be zeroing in on the kissing now is different. His stomach drops again at the thought, to kiss Sakusa sober. When he’s not having some kind of breakdown. As usual.

When Atsumu’s brain starts working again, he sees his chances and slips his arms through the opening of Sakusa’s jacket and around him. It’s not very thick, but his body is warm inside. He has a purple sweater on tonight, so deep it’s almost black, and it’s even warmer than his hands.

“Maybe,” Sakusa says as he just barely pulls back. “But that’s probably because you stop talking.”

“That’s harsh, Omi,” Atsumu murmurs against Sakusa’s lips as they move back in. “But you can’t say ya hate me. I won’t believe it.”

Sakusa seems to swallow the words—there’s no space for them to drift, not even a puff of air to rise up into the night sky—and his fingers brush against the buzzed hair above the nape of Atsumu’s neck.

Like a child with a new toy, Atsumu darts back to Sakusa’s neck the next time he pulls back to breathe. He hadn’t left any marks there earlier, but now he’s wondering if he should.

“Winter break,” Sakusa says, and the distraction pulls Atsumu away from his thoughts. “I’ll come.”

His lips pressed firmly against Sakusa’s neck, Atsumu hides his smile. Maybe Sakusa can feel it. He can’t explain exactly why he’s happy. Having Sakusa along will probably be more stress than it’s worth, but between third-wheeling with Osamu and Suna or tiptoeing around his mother, Atsumu’s pretty sure using Sakusa is his best bet.

Atsumu breathes in—Sakusa smells like the same detergent that Atsumu had smelled on the returned sweater and the sweatshirt he’s wearing now, shampoo, vaguely sweaty from the party, and some alcohol that might be coming from Atsumu—and he breathes out. Sakusa’s shoulders tense.

 _This_ is what it feels like to be surrounded by Sakusa, not just his nose buried into a borrowed sweatshirt. It’s not as stressful as he thought.

“Cool,” he says, keeping his face hidden, and Sakusa’s pulse flutters rapidly, though faintly, beneath the tip of his nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so happy to finally be able to update again! I was in a super deep rut, so busy I couldn't even relax enough to think about this fic in my free time. So, I'm really happy I could put out a longer chapter this time. But I'm feeling better now (even if it's only because I get to update ^^) and a very happy new year to everyone!
> 
> Thank you for the kind comments and kudos, especially while I've been away <3
> 
> I'm working on a playlist for this fc, too. Maybe in a few chapters I'll share post a link ^^
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://silentmarco.tumblr.com)


	11. Don’t know if I’ll ever turn the page, I may be an addict to the chase

Atsumu leaves before Kiyoomi comes out of his room Sunday morning. It’s early still—even earlier for Atsumu who had been drinking last night—but Kiyoomi doesn’t know when exactly he leaves. He’s too busy standing under the shower.

The need to cleanse himself is never a pleasant one, but it’s even worse when his mind is split down the middle. While one half tells him he’s filthy, reminding him of everything he’d touched last night, all the germs crawling over his skin, the other half tells him he shouldn’t be scrubbing his neck over and over until it’s red and angry and hurting.

It’s not as bad as the morning after the bonfire, stuck in an unknown place with his mouth tasting like sugar and an ashtray. But his mind isn’t as quiet as it normally is either, like every other time he wakes up after a night out with Atsumu. It’s not panicky. Instead, it’s a shivery feeling of unease. Like standing on ice, just the slightest bit off balance, caught in the moment between regaining his balance and falling.

Atsumu was especially clingy last night, but Kiyoomi only notices it now, after the fact. And he had let him so easily.

Kiyoomi should have expected it, considering Atsumu hadn’t left Kiyoomi’s apartment in nearly a day and a half. But no, Kiyoomi approached it like any other night. He had taken his shot just after entering the party. Despite knowing it was only a myth that drinking alcohol killed any germs, it still put his mind at ease. His mysophobia wasn’t always something that could be settled with facts. Then, he’d let Atsumu kiss him like he always did.

However, the knowledge that he would so easily let Atsumu do as he pleases without so much as a second thought—it followed him like a ball and chain. And knowing that he had ended up agreeing to go to the Miya’s house for winter break was an added weight.

When he steps out of the shower, he brushes his teeth two more times—he’d already brushed them once before the shower—and wipes down the steamed-up mirror.

His abused neck isn’t noticeable. The rest of his skin is red from the water’s heat. There are two lines a deeper shade of red from scratching, but they blend in well. Kiyoomi spits out the toothpaste and dries his hair.

He’d been hurrying, trying to squeeze together the process of making himself feel clean again so Atsumu might not notice, but when he steps out of his room, the apartment is empty.

Komori’s door is shut. The kitchen is dark and the blanket he lent Atsumu again last night is folded on an empty couch.

Kiyoomi stands there for a second. This isn’t supposed to be a change that makes the silence sound weird in his ears. Atsumu hadn’t been here for long, no matter how loud his presence or how much space it takes up. It should be a relief to have him gone. Kiyoomi gets more studying done without him anyway.

But if Atsumu isn’t here, then Kiyoomi can only assume that he has returned to his dorm. Tomorrow is the last day of classes, with a prep day on Tuesday before the rest of the week’s finals. Kiyoomi can’t image Atsumu going anywhere, but if that is the case, then Atsumu is returning to a likely confrontation with his brother.

He hadn’t said much on it over the course of the weekend. Not even at the party last night with a looser tongue.

Despite pretending to date Atsumu for nearly two months now, Kiyoomi hasn’t been present for many of the twins’ fights. Only that very first night when Atsumu had drunkenly proposed his very, at the time, one-sided deal. Kiyoomi remembers watching them fight. It made him think of his own siblings, wondering if all siblings this close in age behaved in such a way.

But no, it was only the Miyas.

After that, as much as he had become something to rub into Osamu’s face at outings, it was always at a distance. Atsumu kept away, as if standing with Kiyoomi strategically put between him and anyone else, occasionally peering out.

But that didn’t feel entirely right either. After all, it wasn’t as if Kiyoomi was some kind of confidant. More like a wall.

Last night had been an exception. Atsumu with one too many drinks—more than usual? It was a hard conclusion to make—but again, it wasn’t like his attention had been on Kiyoomi. It was Osamu. And if it wasn’t Osamu, then it was Kita and the others. Kiyoomi had seen the way Atsumu skirted around them all night.

Again, Kiyoomi was a wall, Atsumu’s focus pinned to what was beyond the wall but with no desire to reach out to it. He was dependent on his friends beyond his constructed wall nonetheless, watching for them to notice him pretending not to notice them.

Atsumu isn’t even good at the fake dating. Kiyoomi had grown used to the kissing—he had initiated it to begin with—but he’s starting to suspect that Atsumu thinks the only thing to a relationship is kissing. Maybe it is in a real one, but Atsumu doesn’t even want to pretend for his friends unless they are ten feet away. Of course, Kiyoomi figures that has to do with a mix of Atsumu’s relationship with his friends as well as his lack of understanding a romantic relationship in order to fake one.

This is Kiyoomi’s first relationship, too, but he knew going into this there was more to one than the physical aspect. Call it his aversion to touch, his mysophobia, or his lack of romantic experience.

Kiyoomi doesn’t know what it is about him that makes everyone else so keen on dim party makes-outs and nothing else.

_I don’t have wings to stretch._

He’d told Atsumu the truth. His mysophobia has kept him in a cage since he was a kid, but it’s a cage of his own design. Truth is, he never had wings to stretch in the first place. Even this fake relationship—he wants to be seen? Who was he kidding?

All this is—it’s just to maintain the structure. Keep from rocking the boat.

Kiyoomi remembers seeing Kita at the doorway before they left the party last night. Atsumu really is hopeless at all of this. He initiates physical touch blindly, hoping someone who matters will see it. He should be lucky Kiyoomi keeps an eye out. Otherwise, Atsumu runs the risk of none of his friends seeing them.

Atsumu is lucky Kiyoomi is a hypocrite, that he moves the line for him, permits so much to kiss him with or without the stinging cleanse of alcohol on his tongue, in the cold, just so someone else can see and believe Atsumu is better than he sometimes appears.

But after finals, everything will be changing again. Kiyoomi can feel the phantom of a tight chest in his future as he packs new books into his bag, memorizes new syllabuses, prepares for new professors, new classes. A new routine.

_This doesn’t go into next semester._

Kiyoomi has that text still in his phone, and it’s all probably for the best.

Because maybe some people need more physical affection in a real relationship. That’s fine, too. If it’s clear that they have different expectations for a real relationship, then Kiyoomi can add it to the list of why ending this fake one is necessary, and why he shouldn’t like Atsumu in the first place. Because it’s just common sense when he things about it.

* * *

Atsumu has been thinking about what he should say to Osamu all night and during the drive back to campus. He was half-tempted to burn the morning away by going on a drive, but that felt better when he was running away from something. Not when he’s procrastinating. Prolonging it would feel worse, like hanging around at Sakusa’s apartment all day yesterday, trying to kill time studying. They’d successfully gone through Sakusa’s essay and Atsumu definitely had a better grasp on philosophy, but Osamu had still been there in the back of his mind the entire time. Ever the killjoy.

Maybe Osamu won’t even be there when he gets back. He’s probably with Suna. They have a bunch of classes together, not that it matters since Osamu’s determined to bomb his finals either way.

Atsumu’s arms feel strangely empty. He’s only carrying his phone, wallet, and keys plus his dirty clothes from Friday that Sakusa had made him change out of. But he feels like he had taken so much with him when he’d stormed out of the restaurant, mentally tearing apart the dorm with his pacing.

He hates how heavy anger can be.

No surprise, the dorm is empty when he walks in. On one side, Atsumu’s bed is still made and untouched, his books and notes scattered on his desk from his last attempt to study. On the other, Osamu’s desk is bare, his bed unmade like he’d just climbed out of it.

After a second of staring, of feeling oddly displaced, Atsumu shoves his dirty clothes into their hamper. While his back is turned, the door clicks open. Atsumu stiffens, head still stuck in the closet.

“Oh, so yer done givin’ me the cold shoulder?”

Atsumu turns and there’s Osamu in the doorway. He’s only sweatpants with wet hair dripping onto the towel around his neck. He looks as though he was expecting Atsumu, one eyebrow raised.

Atsumu hates it. No matter what he does, how is it so impossible to get any kind of reaction out of Osamu? Atsumu feels like a spring-loaded trap all the time, while Osamu isn’t surprised by anything anymore.

Atsumu crosses his arms over his chest. “I wasn’t givin’ ya the cold shoulder.”

“Mmhm,” Osamu hums and moves past him. He brings the towel up over his head and gives his hair a onceover before dropping it into the hamper over Atsumu’s discarded clothes.

“Yeah, Omi and I had _actual_ studyin’ to do.”

“Which would explain why Kita saw you at a party last night.”

Atsumu opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. “Uh, I didn’t make any promises not to. That was you.”

Osamu shrugs and takes a sweatshirt off a hanger and pulls it over his head. “Ma won’t be very happy if we both drop out, so ya better pass yer exams,” he mumbles while his face is hidden, but Atsumu is already on him. The second his head pops free of the sweatshirt, Atsumu grabs a fistful his shirt. Osamu stares back at him and makes no move to free himself.

“I’ve been studyin’ plenty. I know my shit. I’m not _you_ ,” Atsumu snaps into his face.

Osamu sighs out a long breath of air before finally raising a hand to knock Atsumu’s away. “Exactly,” he says. “So stop treatin’ me like you.”

“Then tell me shit,” Atsumu says exasperatedly. “Ya can’t expect me to _not_ be angry when ya go and hide that shit. Or act like I should already know.”

“And that’s why I didn’t tell ya,” Osamu says. “I don’t need another person disappointed. Ma? Dad? Now you?”

Atsumu scowls. “Dad?” The word shapes unnaturally on his tongue.

“Yeah, who do ya think’s payin’ for school?”

“Tch, screw that. He and his money can burn. And what he thinks about anything? Fuck off.” Atsumu stomps off in the slight distance that’s allowed between them in this room.

Osamu rolls his eyes. “He obviously wasn’t my main concern.”

“Then what,” Atsumu says. Osamu had already told their mom. He blinks. “ _Me_?”

Osamu follows after him a step and shoves his shoulder. “Yes, you. Dumbass.”

“I’m not a dumbass, dumbass.”

“Geez, it’s just like high school,” Osamu mutters. “I knew it’d stress you out.”

“Huh? My reactions aren’t that bad.”

Osamu stares at him. “You ran off to yer boyfriend—”

“Well—”

“You _abandoned_ us at the restaurant.”

“Like it’s that hard to get a ride around here.”

“Yeah, Kita picked us up.”

Atsumu perks up at the mention of Kita’s name. He frowns. “Kita came and got you?” He might have been avoiding Kita and the others at the party, but it still hadn’t escaped his notice that Kita hadn’t gone up to talk to him either.

Osamu frowns back. “Uh, _yeah_. He gave me a real earful about startin’ shit with ya.”

Atsumu opens his mouth, but he can’t think of some snappy reply to make. There it is again. Kita was giving Osamu a lecture and letting Atsumu off the hook. It’d happened after their first party, too. The one with the fistfight. All he’d done was take Atsumu out for coffee and ask how things were.

No tough love like what was usually expected from Kita.

In fact, Atsumu can’t remember the last time he’d gotten a real lecture from Kita. Not just having his wellbeing questioned, not just a self-imposed lecture created from memories and knowing Kita for so long now.

Nobody has been disappointed in _him_.

“He said I shouldn’t give you such a hard time,” Osamu continues.

“What else did he say?” Atsumu asks too quickly, causing Osamu to make a face. It’s the first time any blatant expression has crossed his face this entire conversation.

He shrugs. “I dunno. Ya know, just the usual Kita stuff.”

There’s something familiar—a happiness that comes from having Kita stick up for him, but at the same time, it’s like Kita is holding him at arms’ length. He feels babied.

It almost reminds him of his mom. After their dad left, she was always so distant, even more so when Atsumu or Osamu came home with bad attitudes. At some point, she’d stopped lecturing and just sealed herself away. It almost felt nice to have the run of the house, but looking back, Atsumu can’t help but to think how empty it all should have felt instead.

That, and he used to get most of Kita’s lectures back in high school.

It was like he was supposed feel disappointed in himself, but what was he? A _real adult_?

Osamu sits on his bed, pushing himself back until he leans against the wall. “It’s not that big’a deal,” he says.

“Kita’s lecture? Or you droppin’ outa school?” Atsumu asks. He uncrosses his arms, feeling out of place now alone in the middle of their room. “Or me walkin’ out on _date night_.”

Osamu huffs a laugh through his nose, just a hint of a smile on the corner of his lips. “All of it?” he says. “I was gonna tell ya about me leavin’ school after finals. Rin wasn’t supposed to say anything, but he was just bein’ an ass about it. He didn’t like bein’ the only one here who knew.”

Suna hadn’t seemed all that bothered by it. When he’d brought up Osamu failing finals, it had sounded like nauseating teasing. The kind Atsumu was sure he and Sakusa didn’t force upon everyone in their vicinity when they were playing up the act.

Something that comes naturally to _real_ relationship.

Atsumu remembers the attempted date night. Everything Osamu and Suna did seemed like rubbing what a great relationship they have in his face—and over what was becoming the smoldering ashes of brotherhood, the kind of deterioration Atsumu didn’t like to think about.

But could it be that Suna was just as misplaced as Atsumu at Osamu’s decision to leave? It was totally possible Atsumu had been too caught up in his anger to notice.

“Does Kita know?” Atsumu asks.

“No.”

Atsumu lifts his brows. Telling their mom was one thing. What was she going to do? Fight and convince Osamu to keep doing his best? She’d been fighting with him all semester to get his grades up. It was probably a relief knowing she didn’t have to do that anymore, and Atsumu had a sneaking suspicion that she would be happy to have someone else at home with her. Telling Atsumu had been its own train-wreck, but it wasn’t something that would drive a wedge between them forever. The fact that Atsumu was back after not even two days away was proof enough of that.

But Kita? Kita’s disappointment hit differently. Atsumu was well aware of that. He wouldn’t want to deliver similar news. Just the thought of Kita finding out about his and Sakusa’s arrangement sent chills down his back.

But who knew the lack of Kita’s disappointment was an entirely different monster.

“Don’t gimme that look,” Osamu says. “Obviously I was waitin’ until I told _you_.”

Atsumu blinks a few times, then scowls. “Huh?”

“Quittin’ college ain’t the end of the world. I’m sure Kita knows that, but I kept puttin’ it off ‘cause I was worried what _you_ were gonna say.” Osamu scowls back at him across the room.

Atsumu recalls their last big fight. Not the one at their first party—they’d thrown punches wildly since they were kids. No, their last big fight didn’t even compare to the last bout of silence that didn’t even come to forty-eight hours.

It had been right after graduation, when Osamu decided right after graduation that he was going to the same university as Atsumu, after months of convincing everyone that they’d be splitting up come fall.

They barely spoke at all over summer break. It was Osamu’s fault, obviously, but Atsumu pushes the memory away nonetheless even if he knows it’s exactly what Osamu’s thinking about, too.

“I think I took it pretty well considering the shitty way ya broke the news,” Atsumu says. _Considering last time_. Atsumu might have almost burned the house down.

“Like I said,” Osamu says dryly, “Rin was annoyed with me. I meant it to go better than that. Sorry.”

The apology is stiff. It’s unexpected and not needed, yet relief crashes down on Atsumu as if it was exactly what he’d been waiting for.

“Well,” Atsumu says, and the word breaks, stopping him in his tracks. “I’m sorry for leavin’ you guys at the restaurant. I guess.” He stares at Osamu, eyebrows drawn, biting at the inside of his cheek. “And I’m not disappointed,” he gets out haltingly through his teeth.

Osamu stares at him. “Coulda been worse.”

“Damn right.”

“But don’t go thinkin’ yer the only one nervous about the change.”

For a second, Atsumu thinks of Suna, only to realize Osamu’s referring to himself. “Okay, but you get the house and Ma and no homework.”

“And you get Kita and Sakusa and everyone else here,” Osamu shoots back.

Atsumu opens his mouth but pauses, a thought occurring. “Are you and Suna breakin’ up?” he asks.

Osamu’s scowl is the fiercest one. “No,” he says, and Atsumu recognizes his move to defense. In a quieter voice, he adds. “Not yet.”

Back in October, the thought would have made him hopeful. Now, the entire situation has become so intertwined and tangled that it doesn’t matter either way. By next semester, there won’t be anyone for him to show off his fake relationship to. There won’t be a point to it then. Everything will be different.

“And are ya just gonna hang out with Ma all day?” He doesn’t mean for it to come out as condescending, but that’s still probably how Osamu interprets the question.

“I’ll get a job. And—” he cuts himself off, tapping his fingers on his knees. “I’ll figure out what I want to do.”

Atsumu sits down at his desk and opens his laptop. He still has his essay to send to Sakusa, and while Osamu can waste the day away in bed behind him, Atsumu can’t afford to. “I always thought engineering was dumb anyway, ‘Samu,” he says.

He hears Osamu fall back onto his bed behind him. “Me too, ‘Tsumu.”

* * *

Kiyoomi is ready for finals. Everything on his desk is neatly organized, rundowns typed and printed for each class, ready to be looked over right before exams, with longer outlines made to study on their reading day Tuesday. He might be slightly ahead of schedule, but that’s mostly because he’d been expecting to finish his essay today. After Atsumu looked over it, he ended up finishing the paper yesterday instead.

Besides, he could look over his philosophy notes a hundred times and still miss something. He’s the worst with quote memorization and has been pouring over his rented textbooks all afternoon.

The point of memorization is to ingrain it in them what each philosopher believed and theorized—creating a better foundation for the rest of the exam. But those quotes were easy once he knew each philosopher. It was the other quotes Professor Takeda had mixed in. The ones he liked repeating during all of their lectures, adding to the workload as he had all semester. Those quotes didn’t work off of anything they had learned, Kiyoomi was ready to slam his head against his desk.

Maybe someone so obsessed with the subject shouldn’t be teaching an intro level course. Takeda had proven he had no filter and wanted to teach them everything he loved about philosophy, which ended up trying to include _everything_.

 _The greatest minds are capable of the greatest vices as well as of the great virtues._ René Descartes.

The only problem was that so many of these sounded like they belonged stitched onto some pillow in a craft store. And, to Kiyoomi, that made them all the harder to remember. All they’d have to do is match the quote with the philosopher. They wouldn’t have to write the quote out verbatim, but every philosopher had the same pretentious tone on paper, differing only subtly depending on the time period.

But as much as he wants to bemoan the issue instead of study, Kiyoomi keeps reading, copying the quotes down into an empty notebook. He did just fine on the midterm. Now, all he has to do is add the second half of the semester’s lessons and Takeda’s “just for fun” quotes.

 _We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit._ Durant.

Kiyoomi wonders how bad the confrontation went between Atsumu and Osamu. If it had been too bad, then surely Atsumu would have wound up back here. But Kiyoomi doesn’t know that for sure. The Miya twins fight often and fantastically. The first party he’d seen them at, their fight was like a finale, a spectacle, and it was simultaneously a testament that, once they got going, very few people were capable of—or willing to—pull them apart.

Maybe he should text Atsumu and see if he’s alright. Or just confirm that he hadn’t driven off the map. After all, it’s not like he said goodbye, and Kiyoomi hasn’t heard from him since.

 _There is no harm in repeating a good thing._ Plato.

Kiyoomi decides against it for the moment. If he stops now, he might not pick up the quotes for the rest of the night, and he really wants to cross it off his list.

This is almost as juvenile as grade school, copying the same word into long columns over and over again until he knew he could write it properly for the test.

But it worked then, and he knows the same tactic works now. After all, he’s always been a creature of habit.

Done with Plato’s quote, he flips through his text for his next marked page.

 _He who is unable to live in society, or who has no need because he is sufficient for himself, must be either a beast or a god._ Aristotle.

Kiyoomi starts to write the quote down but pauses, his eyes scanning to the end of the line and taking it all in.

He really shouldn’t think about Atsumu when he’s trying to focus on philosophy. He shouldn’t think about anything but philosophy when he’s studying it. That lens is too high-powered, thinking about thinking, and he’s already seen it’s a dangerous path to go down.

Kiyoomi, who can’t step foot outside his apartment without bracing himself. Atsumu, who can’t blend in even with his own group of friends. Two puzzle pieces trying to fit into the wrong picture. Two pieces that wouldn’t even fit together unless forced, tearing at the cardboard to get them loose again. Kiyoomi always thought of himself as a dog with its paw stuck in a trap, willing to chew it off to save the rest of him when staring down the barrel of another anxiety attack, all too ready to mark everything a loss, burn it to the ground, and make do with what’s left. But this is the first time he thinks Atsumu could be that dog, too.

But instead, maybe he’s more of a dog that runs, like a hound on a long run until its pads are bloody without it even noticing. A dog that rips its paw from the trap, not to save itself, but because it can’t stand being stuck. A dog that runs itself nearly to death and then keeps running.

Reaching the bottom of the page, Sakusa carefully rips the last copy of the quote, folds the slip of paper tiny and tight, and tucks it into the pocket of his jacket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should get to winter break, which I'm excited for! When I was initially laying the fic all out, I was expecting it to come a bit sooner. I think I just got pulled in by the angst lol
> 
> Thank you so much for the kind comments and kudos! I really appreciate it!
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://silentmarco.tumblr.com)


	12. Wait up, I'm coming home

The dorm room looks unfamiliar, almost like it had when they first stepped foot inside back in August. Then, it had been empty, the same bare bones copy in every room on this floor. That was until he and Osamu filled it—clothes, posters, video games, television, comforters, sheets, all the necessities two college students needed—walking in and out of the room day after day.

They had kept it fairly neat, though there was no erasing the evidence that the room was lived in, but now, it was a step beyond clean.

Atsumu had packed his fair share for the weeks they'd be spending the break back home. His duffle bag was full of extra clothes and whatever else he might need. His laptop, video games, and console were in his backpack. Then there was the laundry basket already packed in the car, full of dirty clothes they'd been saving to do at home instead of using the overpriced machines on campus.

But that isn't why the room looked so strangely empty.

The spare set of sheets are on Osamu's bed, different from the ones he’d been using. The top of his dresser is clear, same as his desk, and Atsumu knows both sets of drawers are empty. Clothes are gone from his half of the closet, and the walls are bare from where he'd removed posters.

Everything Osamu had owned in this room is gone. A clear sign that he won’t be back.

Staring at it all, Atsumu sighs from the doorway and heaves his backpack over his shoulder and then his duffle over the other. In his pocket, his phone buzzes.

 **Osamu:** We're leaving without you.

Atsumu grins down at his phone, fishing around for the keys deeper in his pocket.

"Can't leave without these," he mutters to himself, pleased with the fact that he had successfully swiped them without Osamu knowing.

Without another look, Atsumu closes the door and locks it. He can wallow in the room's new sense of loneliness when he comes back in January. For now, he has a crowded car ride to look forward to.

He exits the dorm into the back parking lot with the keys swinging around his finger for show. All three heads turn the second the heavy, metal door bangs shut behind him. Atsumu calls out to them.

"Guess who's—"

"No," three voices chorus together, and Osamu crosses the lot to meet him halfway, grabbing the keys before Atsumu can try to get them out of reach.

"I'm driving," he says.

"Shotgun," Suna adds.

Sakusa doesn't say anything, and Atsumu groans.

He’d been so close to freedom. He considers wrestling Osamu for the keys, but he knows from experience how hard asphalt can be and the cold burns his nose and cheeks. This isn’t the time to be getting into a drawn-out fight. Plus, there’s the videogames in his bag to think of. In other words, unfortunately, a fight here isn’t worth it.

Osamu and Suna take the seats they’ve called dibs on and Atsumu heads around to the Stinger’s trunk. Sakusa follows him, and in an unnecessarily hushed voice, Sakusa says, “Well, what’d you expect?”

Atsumu scowls at Osamu’s backpack, the closest piece of luggage filling up the back. He shoves it and tries to find room for his own bags, which means a good punch to Osamu’s pillow as well as Atsumu pushes at all the rest of his brother’s crap. They hadn’t packed very strategically, given that Osamu is carting everything back home.

It had taken two cars to bring all their stuff to campus in August. Their mom had driven her car while Osamu won out again, driving the Stinger with Atsumu in tow. But then, it had been due to a lost game of rock-paper-scissors, and Atsumu still hadn’t spoken to him for half the drive.

As if Atsumu would drive recklessly with four people in the car. He and Osamu used to drive each other around all the time back in high school, especially when they were learning how to drive, basically teaching themselves with their mom unaware. _One time_ he goes batshit behind the wheel with Sakusa, and well—everyone else?—his reputation precedes him.

He’s about to explain as much to Sakusa—in the snarkiest tease he can come up with—but one look at Sakusa tells him he’s better off not being a dick today.

Atsumu gives the crammed trunk one last dirty look before he eases it closed over anything left protruding out.

Sakusa’s paler than usual, his eyes intense, despite his words sounding like typical Sakusa, just like teasing Atsumu like any other time. Atsumu shoots him another look and lingers without moving to his side.

“Feel free to back out.” He doesn’t mean to goad Sakusa, and he hopes it doesn’t sound like one.

The only sign of Sakusa’s sigh is the droop of his shoulders as he breathes into his scarf, which hides the bottom half of his face. “Trust me, I wouldn’t go so far for a lie if it was beyond my comfort level. Besides,” he says, and glances at the packed trunk, “I’m pretty sure your brother packed his things on top of mine.” He shrugs and then turns to circle the car.

Just as the door slams shut behind him, Osamu honks the horn, blaring loudly in Atsumu’s ears. It’s enough to have him scrambling for his side, crawling in next to Sakusa, whose scarf is pulled down now to reveal a passive face, hands folded in his lap as he looks out the window.

Osamu shoots Atsumu a look over his shoulder before he starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot. There’s not a single screech of the tires or anyone’s hand flailing for the grab handle. Atsumu sticks his tongue back out in response, but by then, Osamu’s no longer looking.

Atsumu hates other people driving. His leg bounces, his fingers fidget. He crosses his arms over his chest. Even if it’s Osamu behind the wheel, it never feels fast enough, like stuck behind two people on the sidewalk, walking as if they have nowhere to be. The ride home is under an hour, they haven’t even made it off campus, but Atsumu already wants to fling himself out of the car. Running wouldn’t be any faster—and it would be hell on his smoke abused lungs, despite being a month clean—but it would _feel_ faster.

Sakusa nudges him with his elbow and holds up an earbud. Atsumu squints at it, which causes Sakusa to roll his eyes before he glances meaningfully toward the back of the headrests. In front of them. Osamu has just turned on the radio, which is too quiet to hear, and Suna is scrolling through his phone.

Right. There’s still the act to play up. As happy as he’d been that Sakusa had agreed to come—though surprised would a be more fitting description—Atsumu hadn’t fully considered the exhaustion that might come from constantly keeping up the pretenses of this odd relationship.

Does it even matter anymore? He’d really only asked Sakusa to come because of his mom, and with Osamu’s own relationship in such a fragile state—not that Atsumu could tell a difference with those two—and with Osamu not even returning to campus come January, the whole point of a fake relationship all is starting to become less and less apparent.

Plus, Sakusa probably has shit taste in music anyway.

But Atsumu takes the earbud, and with Sakusa’s pinched expression watching him, he puts it in his ear.

Atsumu prepares himself for some off-the-wall bullshit—because even he can’t fathom what kind of music would be on Sakusa’s phone, unexpected or expected, bubblegum pop, drowsy classical, pretentious indie—but there’s nothing. Only silence.

He raises an eyebrow at Sakusa, who shrugs and turns his gaze out the window.

Even this is pretend.

Atsumu huffs silently—this bastard—and pulls out his phone. It doesn’t solve his boredom problem, and there’s some guilt that slithers its way into his stomach. The thought that all this pretending means dangling a picture of a happy relationship in front of Osamu and Suna.

But that was the whole point of fake dating Sakusa in the first place. He’d even said to Sakusa that this whole thing could be over if Osamu and Suna were to suddenly break up, though of course he’d said it reflexively the morning after their brief brawl.

It’s not comfortable, but Atsumu leans toward the space between him and Sakusa, just enough so the earbud doesn’t fall out.

Driving through the streets of their hometown holds a foreign strangeness to it. Almost haunting. Memories bleeding from his brain out onto the world in front of him right before his eyes.

Atsumu has never been away from home for so long. He’d never once been homesick since leaving, but returning is another thing altogether. He can tell Osamu feels it, too, by the way he keeps glancing out the window. Sakusa’s outward gaze hasn’t changed since they hit the highway, but the car has slowed and there’s more to look at

Atsumu finds himself wishing he knew what Sakusa thought of it all, but then he decides he doesn’t, because if he did, that would mean that Sakusa seeing something like his hometown has meaning and it doesn’t. Because if it has meaning, then he’s surveying Atsumu’s guts displayed before him, and Atsumu doesn’t like that thought one bit. Both the fact that this place carries that kind of weight to him and that he cares so much what Sakusa thinks. Besides, there are no secrets his hometown can give away just from an outsider looking in.

Sakusa doesn’t know they just passed the convenience store the volleyball team went to after practice or returning from matches and tournaments. Or the corner nearby where Atsumu and Osamu broke each other’s noses after a bad game and Kita and Aran had to come along to break them up.

Sakusa doesn’t know they just passed Suna’s house with its dark windows, family already gone. The same house Atsumu and Osamu had egged when they found out a boy their year had moved in from Tokyo the summer when they were in middle school. The same house that same boy came tearing out of with his own carton of eggs, throwing them back at the twins twice as fast and with better aim.

Sakusa doesn’t know when they turn onto their street or when they pass by Kita’s house on the corner. These are all just streets. These are all just houses. Nothing fit to remember past a glance.

Osamu pulls into their driveway the same time two different thoughts tangle themselves and drop like a rock into Atsumu’s stomach. The first is the familiarity sends a ghost of comfort through him and it makes him never want to return to that campus, to that empty room ever again. The second, more important thought—the one that lingers—is how stupid he is for not figuring out sleeping arrangements before they got here.

Does he have a fake germaphobe boyfriend or doesn’t he?

“Be right back,” Atsumu sputters, and throws himself out of the car before Osamu has even put it into park.

“Hey!” Osamu shouts after him. “Do ya realize how much crap we gotta bring in?”

But Atsumu’s already wrenching open the front door, breathing in the dusty nostalgia but too busy look for his mom. He toes of his shoes in a rush before heading down the hallway. He finds her in the kitchen.

Miya Koume leans over the kettle as if waiting for it to boil, but her head pops up the second Atsumu steps in. She looks the same as he last saw her, though it’s a less teary-eyed version of her. Brown hair tied over one shoulder, maybe a few more wrinkles he hadn’t noticed before, and a familiar dreamy smile that wobbles now as she looks at him. It crinkles her eyes.

“Atsumu,” she says. “Welcome home.”

Atsumu crosses fully into the kitchen and plants his hands on her shoulders. Her words fill him with a prickly kind of warmth, one where he’s not sure if he’s about to puke or cry.

“Ma,” he says. “Where’s everyone sleepin’? Where Omi—Sakusa sleepin’?”

Koume’s smile instantly twitches to a look of confusion, trying to keep up. She pruses her lips. “Atsumu, yer bein’ rude.”

Atsumu huffs, hands tightening on her shoulders. “ _Ma_.”

“Well—” she blinks “—you and yer brother are in yer room. Let’s see, I figured Sakusa-kun could use the guest room and Rintarou could have the couch—but that couch is so old…I was gonna have them alternate.”

There’s no way _that’s_ happening. No way Sakusa would want to share a space like that with someone. No way Atsumu is going to try cleaning sheets every other night. And had his mom even cleaned the guest room in the first place? It hasn’t been used in years, and when it had, it hadn’t even been a guest room.

“Absolutely not,” Koume continues. It’s almost funny how quickly her happy smile has turn into such exasperation with him. “You and Osamu are _not_ sharin’ rooms with yer boyfriends. What kinda mother do ya take me for?”

“Oh. My god, no. Stop,” Atsumu says, his hands still on her shoulders and his impulses are tied between screaming and laughing. “Don’t make me hafta tell ya that my boyfriend and I aren’t gonna have sex in this house. _Please_ , Ma.” He leans in closer. “Listen—ya can’t make a big deal about it—Sakusa has a germaphobe thing. Give him the guest room. Let Suna take my bed— _it’s a bunkbed, I really don’t think ya hafta be worried_ —and I’ll take the couch, alright?”

She’s staring at him, lips parted but with no words coming out. Atsumu can feel the blush hot on his face, but he has to face this head-on. It’s a pain and it’s _embarrassing_ , but the only one who will end up suffering is Sakusa, and Atsumu didn’t bring him here for that. He brings Sakusa enough well-intended suffering. He doesn’t want to actually torture the guy.

Finally, Koume does a half eye roll and brings a hand up to her forehead, kneading at the crease between her eyebrows with her fingertips.

“Nothing’s ever easy with you, is it, Atsumu,” she sighs, and her hand drops away. “Fine. Yer all adults. Do what you want,” she add flippantly and then heaves a bigger sigh. Atsumu feels it under his hands. “But I’m glad ya told me about Sakusa-kun.”

“Yer not gonna be weird about it, are ya?” Atsumu asks, raising a brow.

She laughs, then reaches up to wrap both arms around his shoulders, pinning his arms to his sides. “It’s good to have you home.”

The front door squeaks as it opens, and Atsumu relaxes against his mom. He made it just in time.

“Osamu! Get in here!” Koume calls right into Atsumu’s ear, making him flinch. Not a second later, Osamu comes into view, his socks sliding on the hardwood in his hurry.

His arms are full, holding a cardboard box nearly overflowing with his desk lamp teetering on top, a cord dangling down and threatening to get caught underfoot.

“Put that down,” Koume says, pointing to the counter with one hand and keeping Atsumu held against her with her other.

She is well over a head shorter than them, but she’s always been strong. Atsumu has a vivid memory or her physically separating them, each hand gripping the back of their shirts, Atsumu and Osamu struggling to get at each other despite her. After all, someone had been there in the beginning to keep them from trying to destroy each other at their worsts, someone before Kita and Aran.

The second Osamu’s hands are free, she grabs hold of the front of his shirt and drags him in. “Welcome home,” she says again but now to both of them. She rises up onto her toes and plants one hand on each of their heads.

Atsumu sniffs loudly, but it’s purely coincidental, even if he can’t remember the last time he’d been pinned so tightly in a hug with his mom and Osamu. Maybe graduation. But maybe not. Maybe it’s been even longer than that.

There are footsteps in the hallway, and Koume gives them one more pat on the head before she draws away.

“Rintarou,” she chirps. “Yer ma said to have you call her when ya got here.”

Suna freezes in the hallway at the sudden attention, looking up from his phone, but he smiles as Koume reaches out and gives his shoulder a squeeze. “Hello, Obasan,” he says.

“Ya know yer sister will want to say hi,” Koume continues. “She was so upset you weren’t coming.”

“Ma’s happy,” Osamu murmurs out of the corner of his mouth to Atsumu.

Smiling, Atsumu thinks back to the exasperation he’d caused her just a minute ago. “Yeah, don’t go causin’ her any trouble.”

Osamu punches him in the arm. “I should be sayin’ that to you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“No fightin’,” Koume snaps, her attention shifting back to them.

“Ma, I’ve been stuck lookin’ after him all semester. Ya can’t blame me for goin’ a little crazy,” Osamu says, giving Koume another hug while he motions with his head for Suna to make his escape.

With a smirk, Suna pulls out his phone and makes a smooth exit out the back door. It’s still cold outside—feels like and even dryer cold than on campus—but Atsumu knows this house. It’s on the small side, and after sharing a room with Osamu all his life, he knows there’s no privacy to be found for long.

Atsumu also takes the distraction to dive under the sink, knocking bottle aside until he finds the dust spray and rag. Then, with a salute to Osamu, who doesn’t understand, Atsumu darts upstairs.

Before he can bother taking stock of the guest room, he pushes the curtain aside to look out the window down to the driveway below. Atsumu can see Sakusa methodically unpacking the car, all the boxes containing Osamu’s things are placed neatly along the side of the car, ready to be taken inside. Osamu appears a second later, says something to Sakusa, who pauses and replies before getting back to unloading. Osamu grabs the closest box and heads back to the house. If Atsumu were any decent host or boyfriend, he’d bring Sakusa in and introduce him to his mom properly.

But the thing is, inviting Sakusa wasn’t his idea in the first place, so he isn’t truly the host of this situation. And Sakusa’s not his boyfriend anyway.

Well, okay, maybe he should be playing the part better—introducing Sakusa would be more important on the surface—but then there’s the matter with the guest room. Nobody has been in here for years. He turns his back on the window to take in the damage of this untouched room.

It’s a guest room, but they haven’t had anything like guests in years. But before that—before Koume had dragged in an old mattress and headboard from somewhere, it had been their dad’s study. So, probably since the room became another hybrid bedroom-study, it’s never once been used what it had been newly intended for.

Atsumu wonders if the sheets have once been washed since they were put on.

All of the surfaces certainly haven’t been dusted. There’s the empty dresser, an antique from some distant family member they no longer see. There are the bedside tables, the lamp, some ancient family photos, all layered in dust. Pushed off into the farthest corner is their dad’s heavy wooden desk and leather chair. The computer that once sat on the desk when the man had still lived in this house is long gone, like him. Not even an imprint left in the dust.

If Atsumu had been here alone in this house, he would have burned the desk and chair and any other of their dad’s possessions the second he had a chance.

He starts dusting right away, t-shirt pulled over his nose but sneezing and coughing nonetheless. For such an empty room trying in a half-assed way to be two things at once—clinging to what it had been, and not fully transitioned into what it’s supposed to be—it has sure garnered a lot of dust. The only thing it has succeeded in doing is being one bad memory and a nuisance keeping him from doing his job as a perfect fake boyfriend to show off to his mom.

“This is—”

“Shit.” Atsumu whirls around, dropping the spray can on his foot and pressing his hand over his racing heart from the shock.

In the doorway, Sakusa blinks at him. “—extreme.”

Atsumu scrambles for the dust spray that has rolled under the bed. “ _Extreme_?” he parrots, on his knees and reaching with the side of his face pressed against the mattress and away from Sakusa. “I’m cleanin’!” He grabs the can. “For you!” He stands, pointing the bottom of the can Sakusa’s way. “Do ya know what I had t’do so you could have yer own room?”

“While I prefer having my space, the cleaning’s not necessary.” Sakusa reaches into his bag and pulls out first a pack of disinfectant wipes, then a different brand of dust spray followed by Febreze and Lysol cans. “No offense to your mother, but I still came prepared.”

Atsumu stares at the cleaning supplies and wonders how much more Sakusa could possibly have crammed into his duffle bag. Then he realizes it’s his turn to say something, but they’re left standing in silence. Atsumu clears his throat and adjusts the collar of his t-shirt.

“So, uh,” he says. “Have ya met her yet?”

Sakusa adjusts the strap over his shoulder. “Your mother?”

Atsumu nods.

Sakusa smiles, something tiny, and Atsumu doesn’t know why it relieves him. “No, I heard her in the kitchen with your brother, but I didn’t hear you. So, I came looking,” Sakusa says. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Huh? No way.” Atsumu rubs the back of his neck and cringes. “I didn’t mean to just leave ya in the driveway, but I knew this place’d be a mess.”

Sakusa glances around the room. “It doesn’t look so bad.”

“That’s ‘cause I just wiped away two and a half years’ worth of dust,” Atsumu grits out through his teeth. He sighs and sets his can of dust spray on the bedside table. “It used to be my dad’s study, but nobody’s been in here since he left, ‘cept my ma when he put the bed in.”

Sakusa considers this and the room. “I see.”

“Anyway, the room’s all yers. ‘Samu and Sunarin got the bunkbeds in our old room.” Atsumu jabs a thumb at his chest. “I got the couch.”

Sakusa finally enters the room but frowns, setting his bag on the bed. “Why?”

“Why? ‘Cause we only got so many beds, Omi-kun.” Of course, the two couches the have downstairs are both doubles. It’s not exactly regret pooling in his stomach, more like apprehension as he pictures himself on his back like a corpse with his legs bent over the arm. He’ll never recover.

Maybe he’ll have to dig out his old sleeping bag instead. The wooden floors are hard, but surely that would be better than the twenty-something-year-old couches that are too short and their lumpy cushions with their springs digging into his back.

“That’s stupid,” Sakusa says. “Just sleep here.”

“Ah.” Atsumu stares at the floor. It’s about the same, probably wouldn’t hurt any less than in the family room. Plus, if Osamu and Suna get to sleep in the same room…

“Unless you don’t want to sleep in the same bed.” Sakusa shrugs. “It’s your call, but you’ll mess up your back if you don’t sleep with good support all break.”

The bed is only a full-sized mattress, but it takes up most of the room. Still, there’s room on the side of the desk, but that means, if Sakusa were to get up in the middle of the night, he would step on him for sure.

“Atsumu,” Sakusa snaps, stepping just a hair into his space, but for someone like Sakusa, it’s like they’re nose-to-nose, especially when they’re only this close when Atsumu’s drunk.

He steps back. “Huh,” he counters before he’s even processed Sakusa’s words.

“Are you sleeping in the bed or not? If you are, I need to mentally prepare myself,” Sakusa says flatly.

“ _Huh_?” It’s not fair. He’s having a hard-enough time readjusting to his childhood home, then Sakusa opens his mouth and says _that_? No wonder he can’t keep up. “But wouldn’tcha hate that, Omi-kun?”

“I survived a night with you in a twin-sized bed. I think I can manage,” Sakusa says.

There’s a beat of silence where neither of them mentions the morning after of said night, though if Atsumu’s thinking it, then Sakusa definitely is. Atsumu doesn’t want to have to try hiding something like that in his own home. There’s nowhere to hide.

“I guess,” Atsumu mumbles. “If ya don’t mind. But feel free to kick me out at any time.”

Sakusa rolls his eyes. “That’s been the arrangement this entire time,” he says. “Now, introduce me to your mother, so she doesn’t think me rude or you more incompetent than you already are.”

“Says the guy who snuck in on his own.”

“Says the guy who left his guest out in the cold.”

Atsumu snorts and they leave the room. “Okay, but ‘Samu’s just as capable. I was busy bein’ chivalrous.”

“And it’s not unappreciated,” Sakusa says.

Atsumu cringes at the roundabout thanks, his face heating up. This was the whole point to cleaning the room before Sakusa came up. “Anyway,” he says. “’Samu and I share the room across the way. Ma’s at the end of the hall. Bathroom’s the first room at the top of the steps.” He points to it as the pass before he leads the way downstairs.

Behind him, Sakusa hums.

“There’s another bathroom here,” Atsumu says, turning away from the stairs and the front door just beyond them. “Then kitchen and family room. That’s it.”

The kitchen is unusually crowded Atsumu observes as they step in. It’s not a cramped space to begin with, and not large and open either, but the five of them manage to fill it in a way Atsumu hasn’t seen before. Suna’s on the other side of the counter with tea in front of him, talking with Osamu on the end, in the middle of Suna and Koume, who still hovers over the stove. She grins when she spots him and Sakusa.

“You sure took yer time,” she says and presses a mug into each of their hands. “Let me know if the tea’s too cold.”

Atsumu is more than happy to have something to do with his hands. He twists it around and looks between Koume and Sakusa. “Ma, this is Sakusa Kiyoomi. He’s the same year as me, studin’ psychology.”

“And yer boyfriend.” A smile tugs on the corner of Koume’s lips. Her eyes turn from Atsumu up to Sakusa. “I’m Miya Koume. Thank you for takin’ care of my son. He’s a handful but in the best way.”

While Atsumu puffs out a wordless defense, Sakusa gives a short bow. “It’s nice to meet you, Miya-san.”

“Would ya hate it if I call you Kiyoomi-kun?” She’s staring, Atsumu notes, and he resigns himself to this awkwardness, however long it may take.

“Not at all,” Sakusa says, a stutter just barely there. Atsumu bites down on his lip to keep from laughing at the tips of Sakusa’s ears turning pink.

“Ma, stop makin’ it weird,” Osamu says.

Finally, Koume turns away, removing her heavy gaze from them. “What? I’ve heard so much about Kiyoomi-kun. Not my fault I want a good look at who’s datin’ my son.”

“You didn’t stare at me like that, Obasan,” Suna says, and Koume moves away from Sakusa and Atsumu so she’s standing at the counter.

“That’s ‘cause I know you, Rintarou,” she says. “If I think too hard about it, I’ll start cryin’ at all the trouble I know you and my son will cause.”

“Hm, trouble? I don’t know the word,” Suna says. Osamu laughs and takes the stool next to Suna.

Before Atsumu can direct Sakusa out of whatever strange family occurrence that is going on here, Koume looks back over her shoulder at them.

“Make yerself at home, Kiyoomi-kun. I’m going shoppin’ later, too, so tell me what foods ya like,” she says. “And if ya need anything, let me know. Or bug Atsumu about it.”

“Alright, alright,” Atsumu says and uses his free hand to shove Sakusa behind him and toward the family room. “Let the guy sit down, Ma. He just got here.”

Koume plants her fists on her hips and raises a brow. “Yer really the one sayin’ that? To me?”

Sighing, Atsumu gives Sakusa one last push to let him leave the kitchen before he steps close to kiss his mom’s cheek. She deserves it for how his anxiety had gotten the best of him the second he got here. “Yer the best.”

She smiles and all’s forgiven. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost didn't post so I could wait a few days and get ahead, but then I figured I was super close and did it anyway haha
> 
> I figure we're about 75% of the way there. Once I have a good idea, I'll post the final chapter count ^^
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and all the kind comments and kudos!
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://silentmarco.tumblr.com)


	13. You fill my lungs with sweetness, and you fill my head with you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Some light mention of panic attack feelings near the end of the chapter.

It's not that Kiyoomi is completely comfortable with sharing the bed with Atsumu. He wanted to gag on the suggestion the second the words left his mouth. But Atsumu is nearly as tall as he is, and now that they sit on the couch after dinner, close enough that their knees almost touch every time Atsumu moves, Kiyoomi knows that there is no way Atsumu could sleep on it.

He blames these lingering feelings for the fact that Atsumu has made him into a nice, considerate person.

His mind keeps taking him back to the night after the bonfire. When Atsumu had fallen asleep practically on top of him, both overlapping to fit into the dorm's twin-sized bed. It's not that Kiyoomi expects the same panic attack to occur every time he wakes up from a shared bed, especially sharing that bed with Atsumu of all people. That night had been a special kind of torturous setup that had allowed the worst to happen. No, he thinks of how quickly it had all happened. How he thinks back on it again and again only to have no clear recollection.

It was only after he'd left the room that it had even really struck him at all that he had spent the night in Atsumu's bed, and with Atsumu in it as well.

Whatever it is that this fake relationship has become—and he's not mistaken, it _is_ pretend—Kiyoomi can't stop kicking himself for ruining such a fleeting moment that might not come again.

He just wants to see what it's like—the same as the entirety of this relationship. He just wants a taste, and then, maybe years down the line, he can recognize when something like it—but with genuine sincerity—happens again. And he can grasp it tightly, knowing just how rare such feelings can be.

How rare such feelings are not only for him, but to then have them reciprocated genuinely. It will be a miracle, but he’ll make sure he recognizes it when it does.

So, when Atsumu puts the very same dilemma before him, and Kiyoomi has a sobered mind to consider it—he won't disagree that infatuation can act just the same—of course he's going to take it. 

He's going to do this, he's going to allow Atsumu to sleep in the same bed as him if only to prove that he can. And then, his brain can finally shut up about any missed opportunities in this arrangement, and he’ll move on.

It's winding down. The end is in sight the same way Kiyoomi's words sit in his chat history from months ago. The semester has ended, and soon, so will winter break.

So will they.

And they can finally get on with their lives.

It starts with them staring at each other over the bed. Atsumu’s on the side closest to the wall, while Kiyoomi has his back to the rest of the room. Kiyoomi scowls at him. Atsumu’s been like this all afternoon—tiptoeing around him, asking him if he needs anything, immediately popping up between him and anyone else, especially Koume, like a defensive dog only with a smile on his face and chatting away too fast to know what it is he’s really saying.

Kiyoomi gets what Atsumu’s trying to do. He appreciates it in, the same way someone who can’t stop sneezing appreciates the same person saying ‘Bless you’ each and every time: begrudgingly and out of obligation.

Maybe the real problem, Kiyoomi thinks, is that he hasn’t ever been over to a friend’s house before, let alone sleep over, let alone sleep over for a month. There was only ever Motoya, and visiting his cousin and his aunt and uncle didn’t quite measure up.

Kiyoomi figures he’s overreacting to the stuffiness of a certain kind of hospitality he’s never experienced before.

At least it’s keeping his mind off the dusty smell in the air mixed with the scent of another person’s house. As usual, he can’t quite rip his attention away from Atsumu, especially when Atsumu does everything but demand all of it.

“Well?” Atsumu huffs. His eyebrows are drawn, but he looks more thoughtful than angry.

“Well?” Kiyoomi repeats and gestures at the bed. “It’s your bed.”

“It’s not,” Atsumu says, sounding every bit like the petulant child Kiyoomi is sure grew up in this house. “It’s the guest bed, and yer the guest.”

They hadn’t had this problem the only other time they shared a bed. Kiyoomi should have suspected it’d be this awkward.

Scowling at having to make the first move, Kiyoomi pulls the covers back on his side. It looks like Atsumu is keeping his sudden streak, playing as Kiyoomi’s shadow and waiting for him to place himself in a room before Atsumu takes any remaining space close by.

There are too many pillows. On a made bed, it looks put together and neat. Now, the amount of them is absurd, especially in a bed that will barely fit the two of them as is. Still, Kiyoomi finds a solution to the problem plaguing him all day. He uses the excess pillows as a wall stretching from the headboard to the foot of the bed. It gives them significantly less room on either side. Atsumu rolls his eyes at the development.

“Ya have a way of makin’ the floor look more appealin’ by the minute, Omi,” he says.

Kiyoomi sits down on the mattress with finality, and it doesn’t take much for the springs to squeak. He winces. “Just get in.”

The squeaking springs announces every movement they make, no matter how slight. Atsumu turns off the lamp, and somehow, after a bout of smacking hands and knocking elbows in the dark, the covers are pulled up over them and the pillows. Then, there’s only the silence of the house. Kiyoomi rolls on his side, causing the mattress to protest weakly.

The sheets are scratchy and the pillow doesn’t feel right beneath his head. On the other side, Atsumu shifts and the mattress squeaks again.

“This is dumb,” Atsumu says through a yawn.

“What’s dumb is you saying it’s dumb,” Kiyoomi says. “Ignore it and go to sleep.”

Atsumu’s quiet for a moment. Kiyoomi wonders how long it will take him to fall asleep. He expects to be up a few hours still, if not the entire night. He could barely sleep in his apartment, even after months of getting used to it, turning him into an insomniac. At least then, he could stay up studying or doing whatever he pleased in his own room. Except for on the nights Atsumu decided to call and pester him so late.

“Do you regret comin’?” Atsumu asks. His voice is awkwardly loud in the dark.

Things would be a lot easier if he hadn’t. “Do you regret asking me?” he asks, and he knows not everything would be easier.

“Tch, I didn’t have a choice. It was Ma’s idea, I told ya that.”

If Kiyoomi hadn’t come, their arrangement would have slithered its way through winter break. Kiyoomi would go about his day, and Atsumu would go about his. For once, they wouldn’t see each other for nearly a month. Then, what would happen come next semester? Would things pick up where they left off? Or would they have fizzled out completely? Kiyoomi has no way of telling the future, but he knew both of those options wouldn’t work.

He knew he couldn’t end things before winter break either. It had snuck up on them too fast.

Ending things was supposed to be easy, that had been the point of this, at least on Kiyoomi’s side of things. It was just a mutually agreed upon contract expiring. All the same, it felt too much like he was letting Atsumu down.

Atsumu had come to him in a desperate bout of drunkenness, needing him to simply play a part. Back then, Kiyoomi could blame his shallow attraction, a determined plan to have Atsumu annoy the crush right out of him. Now, if he asked Kiyoomi to keep up this charade, if he had a reason for it to continue, then Kiyoomi doesn’t think he’d have the power to deny Atsumu.

Agreeing to spend winter break with the Miyas was just to give himself more time. The logical part of his mind knew that he wasn’t letting Atsumu down. He was just stubbornly clinging to this stable kind of relationship, and that was no good.

Changes were coming. Kiyoomi had to get used to facing them.

He’s not sure if Atsumu tries talking to him again. If he does, his voice is too quiet to hear over Kiyoomi’s thoughts. By the time he thinks of trying to get some sleep, there are only snores in the room.

They are soft, stupidly endearing sounds. Kiyoomi should want to reach across and pinch Atsumu’s nose or smother him with one of the pillows. Instead, he rolls over and sees Atsumu’s shadow of a shoulder over the wall between them. Kiyoomi shuts his eyes and waits.

He dreams of kissing Atsumu. It’s not the first time, but it’s the first time the kiss doesn’t feel so fleeting. Kiyoomi kisses him with his eyes shut. All the same, it is dark and full of colors all at once. Atsumu tastes of nothing. He says nothing. And then, after second or hours, Kiyoomi wakes up.

The sight that greets Kiyoomi the next time he opens his eyes is not a fair one. Sleep deprived and disoriented enough as he is, his heart stutters involuntarily and a feeling swoops down into his gut before he can think to hold thoughts like that back.

It’s not fair that the window over their heads is east-facing. It’s not fair that the sun makes the tufts of hair golden from what he can see just on the other side of the pillow. And when Kiyoomi sits up and looks over—against any and all better judgement—it’s not fair that Atsumu looks even prettier when he’s asleep.

He doesn’t look real, what with sun making his hair gold and skin warm. His eyelashes are dark though, and their shadows paint them long against his cheeks. Sleep makes him calm, quiet. No eyes flashing, mouth curling. No hidden layer under layer leaving Kiyoomi guessing. It’s simple, easy, and that thought acts as a punch to Kiyoomi’s chest.

Kiyoomi has concluded that every version of Atsumu is pretty. That wasn’t supposed to be the outcome of this fake relationship, but then he hadn’t expected to see so many versions of Atsumu, who was supposed to be an annoying—albeit pretty—punk. Someone Kiyoomi just needed to get over.

He thinks of the drunk, sloppy Atsumu, hiding himself in kisses in strangers’ dimly lit houses, unaware if the people he thinks he’s fooling are even paying attention. The quick-witted Atsumu with a sharp tongue, who has a counter for every debate—whether studying philosophy or back in October, when Kiyoomi still voiced his concerns over Atsumu’s motives for getting into this fake relationship in the first place. The hypocritical reserved yet chatty Atsumu, whose nerves make him like a livewire, putting up a wall with too many words all at once.

The calm, sleeping Atsumu, who doesn’t have to worry about lies or keeping track of Kiyoomi’s constantly changing boundaries. Who doesn’t have to worry about pairing expectations with his twin or whatever else that makes him dive headfirst without thinking into bad habits. Habits that would bury him alive, though Atsumu pretends not to notice, if he’s aware at all.

And Atsumu’s not simple, but the last thing Kiyoomi needs is to think Atsumu has a version of himself that is anywhere close.

But of course, Kiyoomi was the one who wanted to see such a sight after missing it before—like he had expected anything else. Just like agreeing to be Atsumu’s fake boyfriend to begin with, did he really expect it to be so easy to force away his crush? Is that what he really expected?

As always, it’s his own fault for taking things just a bit too far.

_A bit? This has been nothing but selfishness since the beginning._

Cold sweat pricks down along his back, and it has nothing to do with proximity or his mysophobia. Kiyoomi has started down similar trains of thought in the past, but there had always been a quick distraction nearby—studying, shots of alcohol, Atsumu himself—so he’s been able to keep from reaching this inevitable conclusion.

He pushes himself out of bed, grabs his clothes, and leaves for the bathroom down the hallway.

This has always been rooted in some selfish gain. Both of them agreed on that. But it had been selfish in matters that didn’t concern the other—Atsumu to get back at his brother, Kiyoomi to pretend a real relationship for someone like him was possible.

Komori would say that it’s his own fault for getting too close, and Kiyoomi would have to begrudgingly agree with him this time. He would have never happened upon this realization if he had just kept a careful distance.

He shuts the toilet lid and sits down hard. It’s cold and so are the tiles under his feet, but his face feels hot and damp with sweat, like he’s sick or having a panic attack. It’s neither of those.

Because _he’s_ the one using Atsumu. He didn’t agree to this just to play fake boyfriend. Looking back, he wouldn’t have agreed to anyone else. No, he wanted to play fake boyfriend _with Atsumu_.

He said yes the night of the fraternity party because he had a dumb crush and wanted to pretend this messed up version was real no matter how many other lies he told himself.

And lies he _continued_ to himself over and over that he’d get over it, as if that made it any better. As if, if he did get over Atsumu, that made it any less wrong.

Because he’s not going to get over Atsumu. After months of denying it and faking it to himself and Motoya that he wasn’t going to get attached or get hurt—that _Atsumu_ would be the one hurting himself in the end—it only took one look at Atsumu’s stupidly pretty face, to come home with him, to ask him _Do you regret it?_

And _yes_ , he does, because it’s only realizing now that Kiyoomi understands he had no intention of getting over Atsumu in the first place.

He thought he was doing Atsumu a favor? He thought he was better than Atsumu, who was dolling out the low blow to his brother? Kiyoomi had plunged his head so deep in the sand, he honestly thought he was somehow better than Atsumu in this tangled mess.

 _Atsumu_ was concerned he was using Kiyoomi as a means to an end? No, that was all Kiyoomi, because Atsumu doesn’t know that he’s been used all these months to play out Kiyoomi’s stupid, stupid crush.

It’s not a panic attack, he reminds himself, it’s guilt, but he doesn’t know which would make him feel better. It’s just numbness of resignation. Guilt. He’s guilty. He was wrong. Atsumu’s not the one hurting. Kiyoomi’s the one breaking his own heart. Plenty of other things have the capacity to hurt Atsumu. This isn’t one of them.

Kiyoomi gets dressed in a detached blur, brushes his teeth, splashes his face with cold water, goes through his memorized morning routine. By the time he makes his way downstairs, there’s some feeling of normalcy waking up underneath his skin. It’ll have to be a bit longer, but he can continue faking it. He can keep up this lie.

The rest of the house is quiet. Osamu and Suna must still be asleep like Atsumu. Kiyoomi moves about, still zombie-like, until he’s standing in the hall just outside the kitchen. Koume is there and her eyes are on him in a second. After her initial surprise, she smiles.

He wonders how strange it must be to have so many in her house after being alone for so long. Kiyoomi thinks it would be unsettling.

“Coffee?” she asks hesitantly.

Kiyoomi nods, mouth dry. There’s not even a split second for him to find some kind of escape.

“I was just makin’ some for myself, so it’s no trouble,” she continues hurriedly, moving about the kitchen. “You an early rise, Kiyoomi-kun? Ain’t like my boys at all.” She laughs breathily with her back to him at the stove.

The way the silence fills so quickly with her voice reminds him of Atsumu, the nervous tick of talking too much, and Kiyoomi wonders if he got it from her. Koume had been so natural yesterday, welcoming everyone home, but now there’s that little, hasty intake of breath before she talks, the same way as Atsumu.

Kiyoomi feels bad that he couldn’t wait to come down with everyone else. Today, that would’ve been impossible. Feeling like he could drown in his guilt, he doesn’t know how he could face anyone else in this house, but even if he were dating Atsumu for real, he wouldn’t want to end up in a room alone with his mom so soon after meeting.

“Depends on the day,” he says only after a second too long, still hovering in the hall.

They’re the only strangers in this house. If Kiyoomi had only been thinking straight—he blames Atsumu and the sun before, eventually, his own stupidity.

“Sit,” she says and motions to the stools he knows are on the other side of the counter. “Please. Yer makin’ me nervous just standin’ there.” The same laugh whispers out.

“Sorry,” Kiyoomi murmurs and goes to sit. Having rarely been someone’s guest, he battles the uselessness of doing nothing in someone else’s home.

“Yer—” Koume glances at him then back to the kettle “—ya know, yer not what I expected, Kiyoomi-kun.”

Kiyoomi freezes a moment, before his shoulders wilt. Is his acting no good? And after the realization that he’s hardly been acting, thinking such is a disappointment.

Does Atsumu’s mother guess their secret? He swallows down his worries, something that is getting more difficult to do.

“What makes you say that?’

“Well,” she draws out daintily, “when I found out both my boys had started datin’, I already knew Rintarou. He was over here every day since his family moved. He’s always been a quiet boy, bit of a troublemaker at times. Kinda like Osamu. So, I don’t know—” she looks at Kiyoomi closely, and though he knows he’s in the clear, his guilt feels like a rope tightening around his neck “—I thought Atsumu would date someone a little more…extroverted?” She tilts her head to the side, as if she’s not convinced of her chosen word.

Kiyoomi blinks. “Oh.”

He’s not sure he’d call Atsumu extroverted. Maybe when they first met. The way Atsumu would never shut up, the way he was always surrounded by friends the second he stepped foot on campus. But he likened to oil in water whenever they were in a crowd. It contradicted any first impressions he gave off. Koume seems to know this, too, but she doesn’t correct herself right away.

Instead, she laughs again and passes him a mug, and it hits Kiyoomi that _that’s_ similar to Atsumu, too. The kind of way he half approaches serious conversations but backs off in a ditzy fashion—one way or another—like when they went over their philosophy notes.

“But don’t get me wrong,” she continues, changing the subject. “If we had another Atsumu in the house—as well as Rin and Osamu—I’m sure the place would go up in flames. I’m happy he has you.”

She smiles so sweetly that it’s almost worse lying to her than to Atsumu. Almost.

"But you know," she says thoughtfully, "maybe yer a bit alike. I mean, you've both been so fidgety since ya got here. I swear, I don't think I've seen Atsumu so tense."

"Glad I'm not the only one who noticed," Kiyoomi says without thinking and purses his lips together the second the words are out.

But Koume is already laughing, this time one that’s genuine, not deferring. "I think everyone but Atsumu can see him walkin' around with his shoulders up to his ears. But let him get it out of his system. He should come around," she says. "You too. This house has missed havin' so many people in it. I'm sure it'd hate for anyone not to feel at home."

Kiyoomi wonders if that's another reason Koume's so talkative despite him being afraid to say anything to her.

At least, it doesn't seem like she's guessed their charade.

Kiyoomi makes the decision then, while Koume is still smiling at him and offering to fill his coffee mug. He can end things before New Years. He can make a good enough excuse by then, end things with Atsumu, and get out of this house where everyone’s more perceptive than they let off and Kiyoomi feels he might squirm right out of his skin.

Then, Atsumu can tell Koume and everyone else whatever he wants.

* * *

Atsumu doesn't like being home. He feels out of place enough without the extra company of Suna and Sakusa, turning up where he least expects them—Suna in his seat at the dinner table, Sakusa in his mom's, and then Koume not saying anything about it. There's other dumb occurrences that shouldn't matter, and they don't, but it's weirding Atsumu out.

Plus, there's sleeping in his dad's old study. He should've bit the bullet and stuck to the couch, or maybe he could've been an ass about it and took the floor of his and Osamu's room. But third wheeling sucks just as much for him as it does for Osamu and Suna. And he doesn’t want a repeat of their attempted double date.

Unfortunately, there's just no easy way out. He'll have to grit his teeth and bear it until they go back to campus in the new year. The new semester won't be like returning to normal, but it will be better than the vibe of their weird group filling the house.

It's a different kind of weird than when their dad had left. Too empty, now too full. Atsumu doesn't think there will ever be a true balance in this house, but that's alright because it's not really his anymore. A few weeks here and there, but he has no plans of living here permanently again. Unlike Osamu. He doesn't know how his brother will stand it—a somehow even more lonesome version of home.

But it'll be better than the dorm room, Atsumu's pretty sure of that.

Osamu hadn't acted nearly as affected as Atsumu after their dad left. He was quieter, didn't get into fights with Atsumu as much, but when they did, it was explosive. And then deadly quiet in the fallout.

Osamu had been planning to go to a different college since the start of their last year in high school. It wasn’t like he had one pinned down like Atsumu had, but he’d made it clear he was doing something different.

So, Atsumu should be used to this feeling. Last year was just a practice run for when Osamu would leave him for good. Like they’ve always just been practicing a permanent separation.

But it didn’t matter that Osamu had cleared out his stuff from their dorm room. Just like last year, it’d be all too easy to him to change his mind, and Atsumu was tired of him not being able to make a decision. He was tired of burning hot and then cold depending on whatever his twin decided to do. It was always his place to react, always ready to start a fight because just so he could see that Osamu cared about something. Just enough to throw a punch back.

If Osamu didn’t want a fight, then he shouldn’t be so indecisive in matters of his future, which concerned Atsumu. It’s not like he cared what Osamu did with his life.

Atsumu was just tired of waiting. He’d spent well over a year left wondering when exactly Osamu would finally leave him.

This time—it was probably for real, but Osamu had sprung his college plans on Atsumu and their mother the second after graduation. Stuck in their dorm room, Atsumu had once again fallen into the trap of watching Osamu prepare to part from him, too distracted to think Osamu might back out on leaving again. Being home, he remembers. He remembers how they fought at the end of the school year and their longest silence that stretched the entire summer. A patient silence that fell like the snow outside, muffling any sound at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience! My mind's been all over the place, so it's been super hard to concentrate on any one project for very long. Please forgive any spelling errors that I might've overlooked haha I tried my best to get this up as soon as possible without losing motivation.
> 
> Because you've all been so patient and kind, I decided to go ahead and share the playlist I've been working on for this fic. Here's the [It's All Pretend, I Swear playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6sLw2VCwnQOH0jCiGF0dLW?si=219d2f4de9334592)!
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://silentmarco.tumblr.com)


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